The Lights of Home
by Laura of Maychoria
Summary: Sometimes even a sun-soaked childhood summer has shadows lurking underneath. Big Bang 2009.
1. Prologue & Part 1

**Fandom: **Supernatural  
**Title: **The Lights of Home  
**Author: ** Maychorian  
**Characters: **Sam, Dean, Castiel, John  
**Category: **Gen, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Casefile, Big Bang  
**Rating: ** R/M  
**Warning:** Very serious issues dealt with here. See the seventh part here on fanfiction dot net or maychorian dot livejournal dot com slash 126610 dot html for details. May contain triggers.  
**Spoilers: **Through Season 4 in general  
**Summary: **There are some memories that Dean doesn't want to remember, and some things that he hopes Sam has forgotten. But when Castiel calls the Winchesters to protect a seal in a small Indiana town where they once lived with their father, everything comes back. Sometimes even a sun-soaked childhood summer has shadows lurking underneath.  
**Word Count: **~31,000  
**Disclaimer: **Tragically, they continue to not belong to me. :(  
**Notes:** This is a Big Bang story written for **spn_j2_bigbang** on LJ, and so it also has artwork, a downloadable soundtrack, and a picspam accompanying it, none of which can be posted here. See maychorian dot livejournal dot com slash 128310 dot html for details.

**Prologue: Lord, I Can't Go Back There**

_Somewhere in Pennsylvania — January, 2009_

"Indiana, huh?"

Castiel just looked at him, calm and cool and remote, but there was some subtle nuance in this version of his blank expression that told Dean that he was expecting something. And really, it sort of sucked that Dean was getting so good at reading an angel's blank face. Mr. I'm-Not-Here-to-Perch-on-Your-Shoulder was definitely waiting for something.

"What? That should mean something to me?"

"You've been to Indiana before." The angel's trench coat draped loosely around him, pulled shut but hanging partly open, as if Castiel really had no idea how you were supposed to deal with winter weather. A chill breeze cut through Dean, seeming to pierce right to the bone. They stood next to a blank wall in the downtown area of a small town in Pennsylvania—once again Dean had rounded a corner and found Cas waiting for him. It was getting to be a bad habit.

Dean snorted. "Hey, Sam and me, we've been everywhere. Multiple times. Heck, I _died_ in Indiana. You remember that one?"

The blue eyes blinked, slow and easy. "I was not present for that particular incident."

"But you know about it." It wasn't a question. "We kind of have a problem with Indiana now. And you want us to go back there?"

"It's to protect a seal."

"Yeah, I figured." Dean turned partly away, as if to leave. They both knew that he wasn't going to, but even a show of reluctance let him retain just a bit of dignity.

"This is at the other end of the state," Castiel said, with the barest huff of air, the slightest hint that he might be just the tiniest bit exasperated with the stubborn human.

Dean turned back, feeling vaguely triumphant. "So you do know where I died."

Oddly, the other man's face seemed grim, now. Still the blank eyes and slack mouth, same as usual, but yeah, kinda, well, grim. Almost...unhappy. "Yes, I know where you died. It was at the southern end of Indiana. The seal is in the far northeast."

"So yay, more sub-zero temperatures."

"And saving the world."

"Yeah, that too." Dean turned away, officially done with this conversation now. "Just leave the details with Sam, okay? He's in the town hall down the block." He waved a hand vaguely in something like the right direction. "I gotta get me some chili before my stomach caves in."

He wasn't lying. He'd been hungry for hours now, stuck in a tiny records office looking through death certificates from a century ago. Yet another fun-filled Winchester day. The cozy restaurant down the street promised good hot eats, and that was all he wanted right now. Just food in his belly and a reprieve from all the angels and demons and seals and the freaking Apocalypse. Was that too much to ask?

But he could feel Castiel's eyes following him all the way down the sidewalk. And something itched deep in his mind. Northeast Indiana...

Yeah, now that he thought about it, that did sound familiar. And not in a good way, like oh, that's where I hit that home run for Little League. More like, oh, that's where my brother nearly drowned in a lake.

But Sam had never nearly drowned in a lake, and Dean had certainly never hit any Little League homers. He didn't want to dig hard enough to come up with the actual memory to fit this vague feeling. It was time for chili, not soul-searching. Dean had had enough soul-searching to last a lifetime and more.

**Part 1: I Want to Ride My Bike**

_Woodlan, Indiana — June, 1990_

"Oh, God, what is that smell?"

Dean made an exaggerated strangled, choking sound, both comical and truly disgusting at the same time, and little Sammy giggled. "Don't use God's name in vain," John said absently, keeping his eyes resolutely on the road.

"But Dad, you use God's name in vain all the time." Dean sounded truly hurt by the implication, as if John had put him down somehow instead of just gently correcting his son's language.

John glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the faintest hint of a grin hiding out in the corner of Dean's mouth, impish and quiet. Ah. Kid was trying to play him. "It's different here, kiddo. Small town in Amish country, folks'll look unkindly on a kid with a potty mouth. You watch your tongue, don't draw attention."

"Keep my head down," Dean muttered, and looked away. Quick as it had come, the impish little grin was gone, replaced with the sullen attitude Dean had been sporting far too often lately.

"That's right," John said, more sharply than he meant to. "Keep your head down. We've talked about this. Why is it so hard for you?"

The eleven-year-old hunched in on himself and stared out the window, obstinately quiet. Sammy watched him silently from the other side of the backseat, and John reluctantly returned his attention to the road. It wouldn't help anything to give the kid yet another lecture. Hadn't exactly done any good the last five times.

Fields of new green rising from deep brown flowed by on either side, stalks now reaching knee height. This was corn country, but not as flat as the breadbasket states further west and south. The land rolled and dipped like a rumpled quilt. Canyons dug into the land somewhere around here, John knew, forests, creeks, marshes and river flats. Quite a few fields of soybeans, too, the bushy plants still low to the ground in early June. A pretty, quiet place to spend the summer. The Impala's windows were down, letting in a cool rush of air. And something else, too.

John heard soft rustling behind him as Sam moved to the middle of the backseat and draped an arm over the seat back next to him, pulling himself up to talk in his father's ear. "Daddy, what is that smell? It's bad."

John turned his head slightly to give his younger son a half-smile. "What does it smell like to you? Give me specifics."

"Aw, man, training _now?"_ Dean kicked the seat in front of him, therefore also kicking John.

John grit his teeth and refused to rise to it. Dean was being ornery on purpose. John would be the adult here. "Why not? It's always a good time to sharpen your perceptions. Go on, take a good deep whiff of that country smell and tell me what it reminds you of."

He could hear Sam next to his ear, sniffing obediently, but couldn't tell what Dean was doing. Oh, they were going to have a talk about this. Again. Not a lecture—a talk. John truly did need to get to the bottom of what was causing Dean's sudden bad behavior.

Maybe Dean was even preparing to answer—John couldn't see him, after all, couldn't know what he was thinking—but Sammy spoke up first. "It smells like poop." He sounded faintly outraged, his seven-year-old sensibilities insulted by the very idea. "Is it really poop?"

John grinned. "I told you things would be different in Amish country. They spread manure on the fields as fertilizer, always have, probably always will. Just the way they do things."

"But it _stinks."_

"It's natural. Good for the land. Think of it as...recycling."

Sammy sat back at this, mollified. He'd brought home coloring pages from his previous school covered with the recycling logo and cartoons of chubby-cheeked characters singing the praises of recycling, had colored them cheerfully while laying on his stomach on the floor of the last motel, his feet up in the air and tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. He probably still had the sheets, packed somewhere in with his school things. The idea of it had made him more accepting of hand-me-downs, too.

John definitely heard Dean sigh, though. Since when had Sam become more easy to satisfy than Dean? Everything in the Winchester world had gone topsy-turvy. It was wrong, sitting heavy on John's heart, and he hated it.

Dean had always been his good boy, his little helper, obeying without question and taking care of Sam without needing to be told. Sammy was the questioner, the balker, the one who had to be handled. And then, suddenly, just a couple months ago, Dean had started acting out. He got in fights at school, not just finishing them but starting them as well. His temper was suddenly needle-quick, snapping at the slightest provocation. He'd been doing well at school for the entire semester up to that point, but then his grades had dropped sharply, with no explanation.

And now, even complaining about training. Dean had never done that before, always eager to learn, to improve his skills so he could someday join his father on the hunt. John couldn't think of anything that could have set this off. Overnight, his steadfast soldier had become a problem child. It was disturbing. It could not stand. They had no time for this adolescent crap.

Poop.

Whatever.

They were coming up fast on a buggy, and John slowed down, craning his head to peer around it and signaling to pass. The small town of Woodlan was visible ahead, little more than a hamlet nestled in among the swelling cornfields. One main road, train tracks, one blinking red light—not even a stoplight. A grocery store complete with an open-sided shed where buggies could park, a couple of restaurants, library, post office, bowling alley, five churches of various denominations. Population of less than four thousand. Not even a cemetery in town...the nearest one was five miles away.

John had found a cheap duplex just a block off the main drag, in walking distance of the library. A possible haunting a couple of towns over, but that wasn't why he'd chosen this town. The county library system was among the best in the country, and its genealogy collection was internationally known. A perfect place to put down temporary roots and really dig into the Campbell family history.

And, hopefully, a good place for him to reconnect with Dean, solidify the team. They couldn't afford any kind of schism, not now, not ever. When John said "keep your head down," he meant it, and Dean needed to be reminded of that in a calm, controlled environment.

If any place was peaceful, surely this tiny Indiana town was.

**~*~**

It didn't take long to unpack. Dean emptied his clothes into one drawer of the small dresser in his and Sammy's room, helped Dad bring his two boxes of books and other research materials in, and placed the few toys and household articles they owned in the living room. Dad would have to find a secondhand shop somewhere nearby and pick up things like sheets and blankets, cups and dishes, since the duplex had only come with a bit of furniture. They didn't usually stay in a house. It was kind of cool.

Sammy was wearing himself out running up and down the steep staircase that led almost straight from the front door up to the two bedrooms, yelling in delight, just to hear his voice shake as he thumped up and down on the steps. They didn't usually have one of those, either. Dean could see that he was going to have to show his little brother the joys of the staircase later, though the rail didn't look slick enough for good sliding. They could always fix that.

The place didn't come with a TV, though, and Dean knew his dad wouldn't think that that was something worth buying. That blew.

"Dean, go check out the garage," Dad called from the kitchen, still going through the cupboards. "The last people who lived here left a bunch of stuff inside. See how much work we need to do before I can pull the car in."

"Yes, sir."

Only a few steps to cross the family room, and he opened the door for the attached garage and stepped into a small jungle of tumbled cardboard boxes and other junk. Even the Impala would have a home here. That was kind of great, actually. Dean didn't know what had made his dad try to find a house this time, instead of an apartment or motel, but he decided that he didn't mind it.

Dean tugged at a box on top of a stack of others, tipping it toward him to see what was inside. A bunch of hard- and paperback books, looked like generic westerns and romances. Stuff not even Sammy would want to read, and Sammy read a lot of really weird books, and liked them. Another box held a jumble of clothing, bright colors looking dull in the strips of light coming in from outside, and when he lifted one garment up he discovered a woman's skirt. Not useful, then. Dad would have to take this stuff to that secondhand store, once he found it. That or just throw it away.

He found a chair with a cracked leg that would be easy enough to repair with some wood glue, more boxes of random junk including toys too young for Sammy, and a busted-up tape player and a bunch of cassette tapes, mostly southern gospel and acapella Christian groups. So not his speed. On the other side of the garage was something covered with a tarp, and he instinctively pushed toward that goal, curious. If it was a lawnmower or something, that would definitely be useful, even broken. Dad could show him how to fix it up, and they had a yard now. Though it wasn't even big enough for a good game of tag—he and Sammy would be bouncing off the privacy fence before they got up to a reasonable speed.

He caught the tarp by one corner and flipped it off, then choked off the happy gasp that wanted to burst out of him. It was a bike, a ten-speed, dusty red and chrome. Dean crouched down to check it out, running his fingers over the cool metal. The chain was busted and one of the tires was flat, but he knew he could fix it up, no sweat. There was a hardware store in town just a short walk away—really, _everything_ here was in walking distance—and a new inner tube wouldn't be too expensive. A patch kit might even be enough.

A footstep scuffed on the grimy concrete behind him, and Dean looked up. Dad was standing there in the middle of the piled junk, a smile tugging at his mouth. "Hey, a bike! Looks a little big for you, though."

"I can handle it," Dean shot back, his hand still on the foam-covered seat, feeling the cracks near the front. Then he looked back, realizing too late that he was being disrespectful. "I mean, I could handle it. If you let me keep it. Can I keep it?"

"Sure, I don't see why not. You and Sam will need something to occupy yourselves with while I'm gone during the day. But I want you always home before dark, you got it?"

Dean stood straight to face his father, eyes suddenly wide. "You mean you don't mind us running around? You didn't want us to leave the motel in the last town."

"The last town was a lot bigger than this one. And not as safe. The last crime they had here was three years ago, and it was vandalism, somebody spray-painting a bench in the park. Heinous, to be sure, and they never caught that master criminal." Dad tapped his finger on his chin as if reconsidering, his voice light and teasing. "You know, maybe you're right. Maybe you boys shouldn't be out in such a dangerous town."

Dean groaned and kicked one of the nearby boxes. "Aw, Dad. You always think you're so funny."

"That's because I am, dude." Dad stepped closer and took Dean's shoulders in his big hands, holding him still to look into his eyes. "I'm serious about being home by dark. You keep the salt handy, keep your eyes and ears open. We won't be neglecting your training either. This isn't a vacation from everything."

"Is it a vacation from some things?" Dean was surprised by how hopeful he was. Dad was always so serious, so busy finding information and fighting monsters. It would be nice to leave some of that behind, just for a little while.

"I'm not here on a hunt, you know that," Dad said. "This is research time. It's just as serious, just as important."

"Yeah, I know." Dean nodded and looked down. His chest felt heavy again, the brief lightness blown away. He hated that, but he couldn't seem to make it stop.

Dad gripped his chin, pulled him up again to look in his eyes. "It's a vacation from some things. No schoolwork, after all." He smirked, almost coaxing, trying to get Dean to smile back.

Dean could never refuse that kind of request. Not from his dad, not from Sammy. He smiled, though he still felt weighted down, confused and unhappy. "Yeah. I'm glad about that, believe me."

Dad kept looking at him, eyes darting minutely back and forth. Studying Dean as if he was a puzzle, some clue that had to be fit in with the rest of his research. He still hadn't let go of Dean's chin, and it was starting to feel uncomfortable, weird.

Dean shifted uneasily and tried to pull back. "Dad...what...?"

Dad grunted and let him go. He smiled again, but it was twisted askew. "Just trying to figure you out, kid. You've been acting...you haven't been yourself lately. It was nice to see you smile."

Dean shrugged and took a small step back, folding his arms around his chest. "I'm okay. You don't have to worry about me."

"Dean..." Dad paused, sighed a little. "You know you can tell me anything, ask me anything. Right? You have questions or problems, you come to me. You got that?"

He looked sharply up, eyes wide with horror. "Holy cow, Dad, you don't have to tell me about sex! I don't need The Talk. I figured it all out without any help."

Dad grinned for real this time, swaying back on his heels and sticking his hands in his pockets. "Oh, yeah? And what do you think about that whole thing?"

Dean shrugged again and turned to put his hands on the bike's handlebars, fiddling with the speed-changer and the brake handles. "I dunno. It all sounds kinda...gross, I guess. Interesting, though."

"Yeah. Interesting."

Dad made his way back to the door to hit the garage opener, and Dean squinted as bright light began to flood the enclosed, stuffy space. The Impala waited outside, long and gleaming black. It was an awesome car, but it was so big. It was going to take awhile to clean out enough space in the garage to fit it in. Even empty, it might be a bit of a squeeze.

"Sammy!" Dad yelled, leaning in the door. "Time to get back to work!"

"Aw, maaaaan..." echoed the small, high voice from inside.

Dean grinned and gripped the handlebars of his bike again. Suddenly he had a plan for what to do with that women's skirt he'd found. It had been too long since he'd pulled a prank on his little brother.

**~*~**

Dean started awake, staring into the dark. The whole room was shaking gently, a rumbling, rhythmic roar filling the air with its _clatter-clacka-clack, clatter-clacka-clack._ Another train was speeding by, the tracks only a few yards from their backyard. Dad said they would get used to the sound, soon, would sleep through it. You could get used to anything. Eventually it became normal, whatever it was. Dean hoped that was true.

He automatically looked across the room to check on Sammy, but only a thatch of brown hair was visible from this angle, Dean sleeping on a mattress on the floor, Sammy in the twin bed. As he watched, his brother stirred and muttered, but by the time the train had finished rattling off into the night, trailing a whistle in its wake like the mournful wail of a banshee, Sammy was still again. Dean smirked, remembering earlier in the day, when he had completely convinced the little dummy that the skirt was a poncho, and ponchos were totally cool and should be worn everywhere. Dad had acted upset about it, but Dean had seen the twinkle in his eye when he finally just reached over stripped the skirt off his younger son in one smooth move, despite Sammy's protests and attempts to hang onto it. Watching his baby brother and his father in a tug of war over a skirt had definitely been the highlight of Dean's day.

Well, that, and finding the bike. Dean turned over on his side to face the wall, planning tomorrow. Dad couldn't spare the money for a new tire, but Dean figured he could find a way to get some easily enough. Once he had a working bike, the whole town of Woodlan would be his. He couldn't wait to find all its shortcuts and back alleys, the good places to hang out, the secrets no one knew but him and Sammy.

He drifted off to sleep with visions of the bike dancing his head, an image of himself popping a wheelie like a cowboy on a rearing horse, joyful and heroic and completely badass, the sunlight behind him and a grin on his face. Yeah. The bike was going to be awesome....

**~*~**

The kid standing on her stoop was slim and straight-shouldered, his eyes clear and steady. Megan squinted out through her screen door, eyeing him up and down. "I don't know, honey. Our lawnmower's pretty heavy. You really think you can handle it?"

The boy nodded, nothing but self-confidence in his posture and expression. "I'm stronger than I look, ma'am."

As if on cue, a much smaller boy popped out from behind the older one, grinning sunnily. "It's true! Dean's totally awesome!" He stood next to the other kid and lifted both fists above his shoulders, flexing his skinny biceps in a strongman's pose.

The older boy, Dean, sighed the long, exasperated sigh of the put-upon big sibling and shoved the little one's chest, making him stumble back a step. "Shut up and let me handle this, Sammy."

Sammy let himself be pushed, but continued to grin at Megan, nodding and attempting to wink at her behind his brother's back. The winks were more like very quick blinks, but he kept trying.

Dean just looked at her imploringly, all of the self-confidence swallowed up in mortification at his little brother's antics. "Please just give me a shot? If you're not happy with it you don't have to pay me. Just five dollars for your whole yard, front and back."

Megan couldn't help chuckling out loud. "That's not as good a deal as you might think, sweetie. My yard is tiny—this is a duplex."

The kid nodded sagely, as if he had a lifetime of experience with tiny homes and their inherent problems. "I know. We just moved in next door."

"Oh, did you?" Megan glanced over at the twin driveway just a couple steps away from hers. The other unit didn't look any different than it had yesterday. She couldn't remember seeing any moving trucks or trailers, just a big, black, old-looking car and a man with a scruffy leather jacket and the most meltingly chocolate-brown eyes she'd ever seen. "I thought that man with the black car was just another looker."

"No, we moved in." Dean shifted from foot to foot, hands behind his back. "That was my dad."

"What about your mom?"

Dean looked away, slump-shouldered and fidgety. The confident, steady-eyed kid who had showed up on Megan's steps looking for work seemed to have entirely disappeared, replaced with this sad, mute little boy.

Sammy chose this moment to step in again, though, his eyes round and solemn. "She died when I was a baby. Daddy works a lot, but Dean looks out for me. He's the best."

"The best, huh?" Well, Megan might as well admit now...her heart was completely melted, trickling down to the floor and soaking her shoes. "You take care of Sammy all by yourself, Dean honey?"

Dean mumbled something unintelligible. Sammy leaned into his side, butting his floppy-haired head against his big brother's arm in a gesture that was clearly familiar to them both. Dean allowed it for a moment, then gave a low growl that sounded distinctly similar to a kitten and shoved the child away with both hands. "Cut it out, Sammy! Jesus!"

He stiffened in alarm, then, and his gaze darted to Megan, eyes big and wary as he waited for a scolding for the cuss. Megan laughed loud and true, unexpectedly delighted. "All right, all right. You can mow my yard. And later maybe you two can play with my son, Eddie. He's just about your age, Dean. Maybe you can teach him something about hard work and the value of earning what you want."

Dean's eyes lit up, bright with joy, and if Megan's heart hadn't already been melted, it would have gone then. Sammy grinned, too, responding to his brother's happiness, and started bouncing around like a puppy eager to lick everyone's hands and arms and faces and everything else he could reach. She smiled back and opened the door to step outside and show Dean how to work the lawnmower.

Megan's family seemed to have been cursed with a long line of bad neighbors. It seemed like everyone who had lived in the other unit for the past ten years had been unsuitable in some way. But maybe their luck had finally changed. These two boys and their father might be just perfect.

**~*~**

Darkness had fallen like a thick blanket by the time John pulled the car into the now tidy garage, just a few boxes stacked in the back corner, the red bike propped upside down on seat and handlebars with one tire missing and the chain still hanging loosely. John's hands felt heavy on the steering wheel, as heavy as his eyes and head. Too much reading would do that to you. He desperately wanted exercise, a run, some sparring, but it was too late in the day. First thing tomorrow. Dean would be happy for some face time with his dad, and they needed to work on that new combo.

He let the door slam behind him as he crossed into the house, books dragging heavily on the bag in his head. Sammy lay on his stomach on the living room floor, reading a large picture book in the yellow pool of light from a floor lamp. Dean sat at the kitchen table, an inner tube in front of him, pieces of a patch kit scattered all around. At John's entrance, both boys looked up, and Sam jumped to his feet and ran to him for a hug. "Daddy!"

"Hey, sport." John dropped his bag to scoop up his younger son and swing him in his arms for a moment, then let him down again and looked to his older boy. Dean's face was sour with frustration, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. "What's up, kiddo? Something not working for ya?"

"I can't figure out where the leak is. Stupid tire."

"Did you read the instructions?"

Dean slumped back in his chair and shoved the inner tube toward the middle of the table, cheeks flushed and ears pink at the tips. "I thought I could figure it out by myself."

The kid usually could, John reflected, heading over to the kitchen. Dean was good with his hands, and had an intuitive understanding of all things mechanical. He got it from his old man. "Let me show you how it's done."

He plugged the sink and started the faucet, then reached over Dean's shoulder and grabbed the half-inflated tire. "You got a bicycle pump, right? Not just the patch kit?"

Dean gave him a very eloquent "duh" look, but it was Sammy who chirped "Here!" and fetched the pump from the corner. "Can I do it, please please please?"

A tiny smile struggled onto Dean's face, pushing through the layers of pre-teen resentment and irritation with life in general like a butterfly fighting its way out of a cocoon. "Sammy really likes using the bicycle pump."

Sam nodded hugely, grin bright and wide. "It's like setting off TNT!" He bunched his fingers together, then spread them apart in an exaggerated explosion. _"Ka-boosh!"_

John chuckled, almost involuntarily. The heaviness that had weighed him down was lightening, floating away. "I knew those cartoons would rot your brain someday."

Still, he handed over the inner tube and let Sam attach the small nozzle, tongue poking out one corner of his mouth, then pump up the tube with quick, enthusiastic pushes on the T-bar handle. Mission accomplished, he placed the circle of rubber and air back in his father's hand with a look of glowing triumph. John grinned and ruffled his hair, then turned to the sink, now half-full with water. He turned off the faucet and immersed the inner tube, waving the boys up next to him.

"All right, there. You see the bubbles coming up? That's where the leaks are. Just two of them, looks like."

Sammy leaned over his arm to peer into the sink, mouth hanging open in fascination, and Dean couldn't hide his own interest, staring openly. "Oh."

"Not so bad, was it?" John clapped him on the shoulder and moved pack to the table, picking up the thin metal rasp that came with the kit. "Dry off the tube, then use this to roughen the rubber around the leaks. Glue, patch, and let it dry. Try not to get the glue on your fingers, though. Okay?"

"Okay." That tiny smile finally fought all the way out of the cocoon, spreading a bright pattern of color and light. "Thanks, Dad."

John retrieved his bag from the door where he'd dropped it and started toward the stairs. Maybe he would be able to sort out some of his notes and do some reading before he had to sleep, head back to the library the next day. The Woodlan library branch was nice, but he would have to go to the main library in Fort Wayne for most of the deeper genealogy resources. They also had this fantastic thing called an inter-library loan....

"Dad? You hungry?" Dean asked before he quite crossed the room. "There's some ravioli on the stove, if you want it."

John turned back, blinking. Huh. He'd somehow managed to forget that eating was important, too. What would he do without this kid to look after him? Probably dry up and die. "Thanks. That sounds good."

Damn it, he was forgetting. This summer wasn't just about research and books. It was also supposed to be about working with Dean, getting the team back in shape. John scooped ravioli into a bowl, scraping out the meaty tomato sauce beginning to congeal from warming on a stove for too long, even getting up the burned bits on the bottom in silent censure of himself. Only a day and he'd already lost himself in the hunt, such as it was, dry and dusty and smelling of old paper. Dean and Sam deserved better.

He sat at the table to eat and watched Dean work on the tube, now with purpose and understanding, the frustration gone. Sammy had gone back to his book, bored now that the work with the pump was done. "I take it you found some yardwork?" His son had mentioned his plan at breakfast this morning, but John hadn't thought to ask how it had gone until now.

"Yeah, a few places. And Mrs. Stoller, next door, she said I could mow her yard once a week all summer." Dean looked up long enough to let John see the genuine happiness in his eyes.

"A steady gig! That's great." Dean ducked his head, smiling shyly at the praise. "Hey, tomorrow evening the library closes at six, so we can do some sparring before dark. How's that sound?"

He expected to see more of that enthusiasm—Dean loved training, loved learning new moves, punching and kicking his way through life. But his hands slowed on the tube, head ducking further so John couldn't see his eyes. "Yeah. That sounds good."

The tone belied the words. Dean seemed reluctant, unhappy, as if John was talking about cleaning toilets. John frowned, but didn't call him on it. It wasn't as if he could discipline the kid for sounding less than ecstatic.

Maybe tomorrow evening he would finally figure out what was eating at his son.

**~*~**

They didn't spar the next evening. John got caught up in Fort Wayne, ended up investigating a haunting he'd stumbled over by accident. By the time he got back to Woodlan, both boys were asleep. _Tomorrow,_ he promised himself firmly. Tomorrow was the weekend, plenty of time for everything he needed to do.

But the main library was open on the weekend, too. Even on Sunday.


	2. Part 2

**Part 2: The Hand That Holds the Knife**

There followed then lazy summer days full of the smell of grass clippings, the chirp of crickets, hot concrete and the rasp of chalk as Sammy taught himself how to play hopscotch, enchanted by the descriptions in one of the chapter books he borrowed from the library. Sam also loved riding the bike, sitting precariously on the handlebars with his feet propped on the wheel guard, laughing as the wind carded his hair. No one could love the bike more than Dean did, though. Straddling the too-big seat with both feet on the pedals and one fist in the air, he was a cowboy, a cop, a fireman, a superhero, a hunter just like Dad. He polished the bike good as new and kept it gleaming.

Dean's favorite part of this tiny country town was the General Store on Main Street, a hodgepodge conglomeration of old-fashioned and thoroughly modern, set in a row of stores with the false fronts on them like in a Western movie that made them look like they had two stories instead of one. In the back of the store were bolts of cloth for selling to the Amish in the area, plain and roughspun, and an alcove sheltered a small collection of boring books from a Christian publisher. Reed baskets held handmade soaps and soup mixes, kaleidoscopes and Jacob's ladders. Best was the section up front, though. Where all the candy was.

Tootie Frooties for a penny and Dum-Dums for a nickel. Jellybeans of every flavor Sam and Dean had ever imagined, and some they had never thought of. Old-fashioned hard candies in waxed paper, taffy and licorice pipes, gummy bears and jawbreakers the size of Dad's fist. Every time Dean finished mowing a yard or trimming a hedge, he stopped at the candy store to reward himself. Even Sammy could get some candy with the coins he found on the sidewalk and under the seats in the Impala, though of course Dean never hesitated to share his bounty. Sammy liked the accomplishment of sliding his own pennies across the rough wooden counter to buy his lollipops. They even had an old-fashioned cash register, big as a dollhouse, that made cheerful jangly noises when the little-old-lady cashier opened and closed it.

In the morning they ate cinnamon toast and orange juice, then made their rounds of the neighborhoods where Dean mowed grass, Sammy running ahead of the mower to pick up sticks, then standing where the grass was newly cut and spinning around in circles, arms outstretched, until his bare feet were stained yellow-green and he fell down laughing, ordering the world to stop lurching around and let him off. Lunch was peanut butter and jelly or macaroni and cheese or canned Italian, and in the afternoon they rode to one of Woodlan's two playgrounds. The newer one had better equipment: a new jungle gym, a teeter-totter that didn't squeak. But Dean liked the old one better, because the trees there were old and tall and shaded everything, until being under them felt almost like being in a cave, cool and cozy and navy blue in the shadows, dark green above. That playground also had the tallest slide they'd ever seen.

That side of town, near the older playground, was edged in cornfields, and later in the summer when the corn was tall Dean pulled the bike one row inside just in case, though he thought it would probably be safe enough just sitting on the sidewalk next to the street. The boys ran down the rows of corn, the earth moist and yielding under their feet in June, hard and cracked in July, when rain hadn't come for awhile. They could sneak along the edge of the fields, playing Indians and spying on the suburban houses only steps away from where the corn ended. On Third Street was a house with a big yard, and the man living there often practiced shooting his bow in the late afternoon and early evening, arrow after arrow speeding into the straw target near the field, a cloth painted with the image of deer covering the straw, a green tomato fixed inside where its heart would be. Dean crouched inside the corn and watched for long minutes, eyes narrowed, and criticized the man's technique for Sammy's ears alone.

They found a grassy hill where they could lay on their backs and watch the clouds, or roll down the prickly side. They paused to watch the train go by every time it rumbled through, trying to count the cars and arguing when their counts differed. They splashed and fought in the spray from the garden hose, and figured out how to turn the water so as to make a rainbow in the sun. Sometimes they even played with Eddie and other neighborhood children, races, freeze tag, Simon Says, cops and robbers. Mrs. Stoller gave them cookies and lemonade, smiling broad and kind, and they were careful to always thank her politely. Once a week or so Dean let Sam drag him to the library to get more books.

In the twilight they caught fireflies, trapping them in a cleaned mayonnaise jar, holes punched in the metal lid with the tip of Dad's least favorite Bowie knife. Dean thought maybe if they caught enough it would be a good nightlight for Sammy, but always once they got the insects into the jar, they seemed to glow much less often. The inside of the jar smelled kinda like grass clippings, bitter and pungent.

"Here, Sammy, let me show you something."

He squished the guts around his little brother's finger in a line of dull yellow, and Sammy stared, fascinated. "Ewww, gross," he said, but his voice was equally repulsed and delighted.

"Yeah, see, look, now you have a glow-in-the-dark ring."

"Awesome."

They got bit up by mosquitoes and Dean ordered Sam not to scratch, but couldn't seem to follow his own advice. It just felt so much better. And then worse, later. He ended up using baking-soda-water paste to try to soothe the itchy bumps, something he remembered from the little house in Lawrence, the memories blurred and fuzzy and washed out like a photograph left exposed in the sun, handled too much and too often.

At night they tidied up the house, made dinner, and waited for Dad.

**~*~**

It was a Sunday when John looked up from his books and realized that it was already July. He'd been busy over the past couple of weeks, what with the summer solstice and everything. Seemed like there was always a cult or a witch or a just plain crazy person trying to pull off something evil on the solstice. But now it was July, and Independence Day was coming soon. Maybe he should take the boys to see the fireworks....

Without thinking too hard about it, he started closing the books fanned around him on the table, packing up his papers, making a final note in his journal. It was time to go back to his sons.

Driving his car out of Fort Wayne and into the country, John always knew when he was nearing Woodlan. It wasn't just the buggies he had to pass, the pitted ruts down the middle of each lane where many horseshoes had trodden, the fields of corn and soybeans with their gentle dips and rises. It was the feeling he got as the Impala sped over the country roads, a loosening of every muscle in his body, the tension of bending over old books and sorting through endless microfiche bleeding out of his fingers and toes. It was the feeling of coming to a place where he belonged. The feeling of coming home.

The duplex was just a couple of blocks off the main drag. John saw activity in the front as he approached, kids, adults, both of his sons and the neighbors from next door, the...Stollers? The Stoller dad seemed to teaching his sickly-looking son how to ride a bike, Sammy cheerleading from the sidelines, Dean riding his red bike alongside, gesturing encouragingly, while the Stoller mom looked on with a gentle smile.

He carefully drew to a stop a few yards away, watching, waiting for the driveway to clear before coming the rest of the way. Sammy saw him and waved, but Dean was busy trying to pedal slow enough to pace the Stoller kid without falling over. Dean had always been good at that, at meeting people where they were and coming alongside, his father and his brother both.

The two bikes turned around at the end of the block and started back, just in time for the Stoller kid to wobble and finally start to fall. His dad was there, though, catching him before he could hit the asphalt, and Dean smoothly braked his bike and hopped down. The dad ruffled his son's hair, his face open in laughter, and started to reach for Dean's, but Dean ducked away, shoulders hunching up. The man took it in stride, turning easily back to his kid. John kept his eyes on Dean.

He saw the way Dean was watching the father and son, the way they were laughing and smiling at each other, touching warmly, the man's hands on his kid's shoulders, the boy patting his father's stomach. In that moment Dean's face was naked, split open, and John saw the wordless aching there, the longing. Dean's body was utterly still, every ounce of himself given to staring at them. It closed up, went away, when they turned back to him.

God, John had been away for too long.

He finally drew into the driveway and got out to meet the neighbors, Megan and Daniel Stoller, their little boy Eddie with his face still gleaming brightly in success. Sammy hung off his arm, treating his father like a climbing tree, and Dean held a small, constant smile, watching his friends meet his dad. The Stollers were going to have a Fourth of July cookout, and they wanted John and his boys to come. It all felt so home-like, so normal, miles and miles away from Winchester life. He said something non-committal and took his boys inside for supper.

It was a good evening, full of chatter and jokes and smiles, his boys so happy to have John there mentally as well as physically. Sammy had a pile of Laffy Taffy wrappers covered with knock-knock jokes and silly puns, but sometimes they were cut off, the answer or the question missing. He wanted John to help him figure them out, and John did his best to oblige. Dean washed the dishes and tidied the kitchen, occasionally offering a crude suggestion. He was still smiling, eyes careful on John, trying to hold him here in the moment without touching him, forcing him. Trying to make him stay, and John wanted to, he truly did.

Later, Sam settled down with his book, and John went into the kitchen, found Dean fiddling endlessly with the faucet, just flipping it back and forth, back and forth, staring out the window above the sink as if he could see something no one else could. John put a hand on his shoulder and Dean jumped, whirling to face him, eyes wide and green, green in his suddenly pale face, breath catching in his throat. John backed off, startled, lifting his hand with his fingers spread. "Didn't mean to scare you, kiddo."

"Oh. Dad." Dean let out a long breath, his shoulders falling down, loosening and relaxing. "Sorry. You surprised me, is all. I was thinking about something else."

"Yeah, I figured." John tried out a smile, found it coming easier than he expected. "Hey, I think it's time we did that sparring I promised you. Can't let you get rusty."

He expected a bright smile, an eager assent. Dean loved training, and they hadn't done any for a long time. Not since before the troubles in the last town, before Dean started acting out at school. It would be a return to a simpler, happier time, in a small way, and John wanted very much to go.

But Dean frowned, a tiny wrinkle appearing between his eyes. "Do we have to?"

John was so shocked that he almost said _No, of course not,_ but c'mon. Who was in charge here? He frowned in return, making no effort to hide his displeasure. Why had Dean's rebellion chosen to resurface now? Their evening had been so calm and pleasant up to this moment. It seemed a terrible shame to destroy that peaceful atmosphere now.

"We don't have to, but we will."

"Why?"

And oh, that was _it._ John felt his hand curling into a fist, but kept his voice carefully level. "Because I said so, that's why. Who do you think is the boss here?"

"You are," Dean muttered, eyes cast sullenly to the floor.

"That's right, I am," John said evenly. "C'mon, let's go to the backyard."

Dean followed him, and if he dragged his feet a little, scuffing his shoes against the linoleum in the kitchen, then the concrete of the steps leading down to the yard, John chose not to mention it.

**~*~**

The backyard was small, high privacy fence blocking out the world beyond it, three or four scraggly pine trees littering one end with sticks and cones. The grass was too long in some patches, dirt dark brown and bald in others. A half-broken picnic table leaned drunkenly against the fence near the house, warped and pitted with exposure, the grain pronounced, red paint all but worn away. All in all, it was a decent sparring ground. Now in the evening it was still warm out, the air a little heavy, but not too hot for some exercise.

The differences in their sizes precluded true sparring, trading of blows. Mostly John simply presented himself as a target, both hands out and flat for Dean to strike at, coaching him on his combinations and technique and moving around to make it harder. Punch, jab, right cross. Turn your body into that, keep yourself aligned, keep your elbow bent. Punch from the shoulder. Better. Again. Better. Again. Again. Again.

At first Dean's movements were desultory, unenthusiastic, but gradually he fell further and further into the dance. His eyes focused and narrowed, body tight with concentration, sweat appearing on forehead and cheeks and sticking his t-shirt to his shoulders and chest. John continued it until he could feel the kid starting to wear down and tire, until his palms began to sting with the repeated blows. And then he asked.

"Dean, I don't understand what happened to you in the last town. Things were going good until you started fighting at school. Why would you do that?"

Dean didn't answer, just frowned mightily and continued to jab at John's hands, following him as he backed around the yard.

"Answer me, dude. You know how I feel about that. We don't draw attention to ourselves—we don't make waves. Why didn't you keep your head down?"

For moment Dean didn't breathe, his fists faltering in the air, but then he punched even more fiercely. "I _did,"_ he hissed through gritted teeth. "I did what you told me. I did keep my head down."

John almost laughed at this blatant untruth. "No, you didn't. C'mon, kiddo. You were fighting, you were talking back to the teachers, your grades were dropping. It was like you suddenly gave up, gave everything away. Why would you do that?"

"I was keeping my head down!" John was startled to realize that those were tears, not sweat. "I kept my head down! I did, I _did!"_

Dean was practically yelling, now, shaking with frustration and rage. He stopped striking at John's palms and tried to make a body shot, jabbing for his father's side. John reacted just in time, the boy's fist glancing off his forearm.

"I kept my head down! You told me not to make trouble, and _he_ told me not to make trouble, and I didn't! I didn't!"

John's breath stopped. More blows to his body, his chest, Dean trying desperately to strike back at him, using all of the strength in his slender frame. In one way they didn't hurt at all, but in another way it was like being stabbed with knives, sharp and piercing, wounding to the heart. John caught the boy's hands in his and held him off, away from his body, his breath coming back in erratic pulls and swoops.

"Dean... What are you saying, Dean?"

Dean pulled at his arms, trying to free them from John's grip. He was panting in harsh, grating gasps, tears and sweat running down his face. "I kept my head down, Dad, I kept my head down, I did, I swear. I did what you said. I didn't say anything, I didn't tell anyone."

His son was crying, sobbing, broken, lost and young. His wrists suddenly felt so small in John's hands, fragile, easy to twist and break, like the bones of a bird. A spot of darkness buried itself in John's chest and started to expand, all but choking him. "Dean..." The word was almost inaudible. "Dean, Dean, what happened? What happened to you?"

Dean pulled on his hands again, frantic to free himself, his voice suddenly desperate, pleading. "Let go...let go of me, please let me go, please, Dad..."

John released him abruptly, and his stomach felt filled with stones, falling hard. Dean crumpled, knees buckling, just like that, and John bent to catch him. Saw an echo in his mind of Daniel and Eddie Stoller, but he wasn't trying to keep Dean from hitting the asphalt. This was something much, much worse.

He scooped the kid up in his arms, and then Dean was fighting again, bucking and twisting, his young voice an ugly snarl. "Get off, get _off_ me!"

John stumbled back, trying to hold the boy still, and the back of his knees hit the picnic table. He turned, set Dean down, snatched his hand away as if he was too hot to touch. Dean scooted along the bench, away, away, until his shoulder hit the fence. Then he curled up, face pressed into his knees, and sobbed. Sobbed.

His father stood there watching, his hands bent into useless fists. Watched his son cry in wrenching gasps, his whole body shaking with every shattered breath. Listened to the ugly sounds of grief and fear and pain. Didn't know what to do.

He didn't know what to do.

At last he turned and left him there, made his way back to the house with heavy steps, sluggish and slow. To his everlasting shame, he left him there.

**~*~**

Sammy was waiting for him in the tiny dining room. "Daddy?"

Dean was visible out the window, curled up on the picnic table's bench, shoulders heaving with desperate sobs.

"He just...he just needs some time alone. It's okay, Sammy."

Sammy reached a small hand toward the window, touched the glass, as if he could reach Dean just by wanting to. "Is it about that man at our old school?"

John's knees felt cut from under him. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, suddenly powerless. "He told you?"

"Yeah." The young eyes were clear, unhaunted by this telling. John didn't understand how that could be. "Dean said me and him don't keep secrets. The man, he told Dean not to tell anybody, no parents or teachers, but Dean said I don't count, 'cause I'm his _brother,_ and that's different. I'm not anybody. I'm Sammy."

"That's right. You're Sammy." John stared at his hands, curled on the table, weak and empty. "What did he say? What did he tell you?"

The little boy shook his head, solemn as a grave. "Not my secret, Daddy. You know that. You can't hear it from me."

Yes, the sacred pact of childhood. John wondered if they had made it a pinky swear, or if words were enough of a promise between his boys.

Sammy turned back to the window, staring out at his brother. "Is Dean gonna be okay?"

His voice was very small.

John looked with him, and he didn't know. "Yeah, Sammy. He'll be fine. Just give him some time, all right?"

It was getting darker outside, twilight falling over Indiana. In a half hour Dean's form on the bench would be just a gray lump, hidden in the shade, invisible to all but those who knew exactly where to look.

"It's about time to get ready for bed, kiddo."

Sam stared at him with big, sad eyes. John knew his kids didn't usually go to bed till an hour or more after dark, and it was still sunset now. But he needed Sammy to listen and obey. He needed Dean alone.

His younger son, bless him, seemed to understand. He nodded slowly. "Can I say good night to Dean, first?"

"Sure. Go ahead."

Sammy opened the back door and stepped out, small feet quiet and graceful. John watched through the window, saw him cross the yard to his brother. Dean didn't look up, still crumpled inward on himself, though the shaking had finally begun to ease. Sammy climbed up on the bench next to him and plastered himself all over Dean's side, wrapping his arms around the older boy as far as they would go. John saw his lips moving, murmuring something in Dean's ear. Dean didn't react. Sam squeezed him tight for a moment longer, then clambered slowly off the bench and headed back inside.

"It's okay, Daddy," he said, closing the door behind him. "Dean will talk to you now."

"He tell you that?"

"No, 'course not. He didn't say anything. But I know."

John just nodded, slow, believing. Of course. Dean knew Sammy and Sammy knew Dean, and apparently John didn't know anything at all, missing something like this.

"'Night, Daddy."

"Good night, son."

Sammy headed up the stairs for bed.

**~*~**

John thought for a moment before he sat down next to Dean, trying to decide what would be too close, what would be too far. He didn't want the boy to feel trapped against the fence, but he didn't want him to feel that John didn't want to be near him, either. Even though that was true, in a way—John wanted to be anywhere but here, anywhere at all. He was done indulging his own weakness, though. It was time to focus on his son.

At last he sat, close but not touching, just in case. "I'll kill him, Dean. I'll kill him. Give me a name, and I swear, he's dead."

It shouldn't be comforting, and maybe it wouldn't be to another kid, a normal kid. But they were Winchesters, and Dean relaxed at his father's words, arms sliding slightly down around his knees. He was shivering still, his pale skin speckled with goosebumps in the gloaming light. After a long moment he swallowed, then spoke, voice hoarse and ragged, near a whisper. "Don't go."

John pulled in a breath through aching lungs. "All right. I won't."

The darkness deepened and John just sat there, listening to his boy breathe. "I'm here, buddy. I'm not going anywhere," he said again, because he had to make sure that Dean knew.

The boy nodded against his knees, face still hidden, the movement slow and limp with weariness.

After another minute or so John put a hand on his son's back, slowly and gently, ready to draw back if Dean flinched. But the kid allowed the touch, and after a bit even seemed to be pressing into it, a tiny whimper escaping his throat. Encouraged, John shifted closer, until he could feel Dean against his side, small and warm and his, his. "Let's go inside. It's late."

"'M tired, Dad." A low murmur, heavy with exhaustion. "Don' wanna move."

"Then let me take care of it, okay?"

The boy made a small noise that John took for agreement. Again he hesitated, not wanting to push too far, too fast. He hated this, hated that he was uncertain of how to be with his son. Hated the man who had done this, who had taken John's bright, confident child and made him afraid to be touched by an adult. He buried the rage for now, because it would not help him here, but oh, it was deep and strong and black, so black.

"C'mere, sweetheart," he murmured, pulling the boy against him, the endearment he hadn't used since Dean was a toddler sliding effortlessly from his lips. "I gotcha. It's gonna be okay."

Dean smelled sour and salty, still damp with tears and sweat, but underneath was the sweetness that belonged only to Dean, John's beautiful son, his precious baby boy. He drew the boy into his arms, one arm under his shoulders, the other under his knees, and Dean grunted softly and let his head slide beneath John's chin, sheltered and safe. John clutched him to his heart, fighting tears of his own, then carried him inside. Kicked open the door and climbed the stairs, hesitated at the door of the boys' room, then continued to his own and laid the kid down in his own bed.

He took off Dean's shoes but didn't touch the rest of his clothes, catching the soft green glimmer of Dean's half-open eyes watching him in the dim light. _Not too much, John, you idiot._ He tucked the light blanket around Dean's shoulders, then sat next to him on top of the covers, his back against the wall, feeling Dean's warmth against the length of his leg.

"Tell me who it was. Tell me what happened."

Dean's breath quickened, loud in the quiet room, and for what felt like forever, he didn't answer. Then he turned over on his side, facing his father, curled up in a tight ball with his face pressed against John's hip, shaking silently. And he told his dad everything, everything that had been done to him.

**~*~**

"It was the P.E. teacher."

John couldn't remember his name, didn't know if he'd ever known it. Was furious at himself for not knowing.

"I stayed behind one day to help him clean up. I liked P.E."

Implicit in this was _I don't like it anymore._

"He put his hand on my arm and told me to come with him. In the equipment closet. Um. There was a rack of basketballs."

John lowered his hand to the boy's head and started stroking his hair, slow and smooth, combing through the tangles, the dried sweat.

"He pushed me down. Held me. Covered me. He was so strong and big. He covered my whole body. I could..."

Dean trembled harder. John laid his hand still on his son's hair, cupping the back of his head, pressed it there. His fingertips touched the back of Dean's neck and he rubbed, massaging carefully and firmly.

"I couldn't move. Well, maybe I could have, but I didn't, I... I didn't yell. I didn't say anything. I didn't..."

John said nothing. He wanted to curse, demand why Dean hadn't fought back, at least tried to get away. He knew it was wrong, but he was so angry in that moment, so fiercely enraged.

"Dad, I didn't, I couldn't, I wanted to, but... I was so scared. I was so scared."

Dean was waiting, now, for John to say something. To condemn him, absolve him, whatever John wanted to do. He drew in a shaky breath and knew that he had to be a father.

"It wasn't your fault, Dean. You didn't do anything wrong."

It was crazy, it was insane, but Dean's shaking stopped almost immediately.

"He didn't take my clothes off, or his, but I could...I could feel him moving. Pushing against me. I felt it, Daddy, I felt all of it."

John started stroking his hair again.

"Then he just...let me up. Told me not to tell anyone, and let me go. And I...I just went. I didn't say anything. I kept my head down."

John tipped his head back against the wall and felt the tears falling down his cheeks, running down his neck, into his collar. God. He had done this. He had done this.

"The next day he said that my shorts were too low and he stuck his fingers into the waistband and pulled them up, and his fingers were so dirty and hard, and... That was when I started skipping P.E. There were a couple of other times he scared me, though. I saw him watching me in the hall. Once, when school was over, I turned a corner and he was right there, waiting for me. There weren't any kids around, no one but me and him, and he smiled and... I ran away like a little baby."

John sniffed, and managed to murmur, "Good for you. Good for you, son."

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I...I know I was bad."

"No. No, Dean. You weren't bad."

"But I started fighting. I don't know why. I was just...I couldn't be good anymore. And I didn't care about school, and I yelled at the teachers, and, and I was being so bad."

"No, sweetheart, no. You just...you wanted someone to see. You wanted someone to help you. And no one did. That's not your fault, kiddo, that's mine. Mine, and everyone else who didn't see. You're not bad. You're not bad."

Dean was crying again, and so was John. It felt like there was nothing else to do.


	3. Part 3

**Part 3: I Can Remember the Fourth of July**

_Somewhere in Pennsylvania — January, 2009_

Dean stepped out of the cafe with a pleased sigh and a burp, his belly warm and full of chili. He felt considerably more even-keeled now, ready to go back to the drudgery of the current hunt. Or Indiana, if need be. If he really, really had to.

Somehow, though, he still managed to be shocked when Castiel popped up yet again, appearing directly in front of his face. Dean started back a step, breath hitching, one hand rising to his chest in a gesture that was disturbingly like that of a maiden aunt. "Shit, Cas! Why you gotta do that to me all the time?"

The angel still had that grim, unhappy expression, tight around his mouth, his tired eyes. "I have decided that I should accompany you to Indiana."

Dean stepped determinedly past him and started walking down the street, glaring askance when Castiel walked with him, effortlessly keeping pace. "What, we need babysitters now? I'm sure whatever it is, Sam and I can handle it."

"Nevertheless, I will go with you."

"So now you're on assignment from the big cheese? Gotta keep an eye on the demon-blood boy and his chosen-one brother?"

"No."

"No to which one?"

"No, this is not an assignment from God."

"Then, what, from another angel?" Dean huffed a frustrated breath, his footsteps fast and hard. "You know what, just forget it. I don't want to know."

He continued striding toward the hall, glancing sporadically at Castiel, who walked with him, serene and silent. "Don't you have somewhere to be, Feather-Breath?"

"I told you, I am going to accompany you to..."

"Starting _now?"_

"Yes."

They kept walking. Dean scowled ahead, trying and failing to ignore his sudden shadow. This was going to be _so_ annoying.

**~*~**

Sam, of course, took it all in stride. Damn his eyes. "So, where exactly in Indiana are we going?"

They were sitting at a low, cramped table in the back of the records office, surrounding on all sides by bookcases that reached from floor to ceiling, jammed side-to-side with files, folders, and ledgers. Sam had a stack of papers in front of him and a laptop at his elbow, but he had pushed it all aside to stare at his brother and their heavenly visitor. Castiel stood against the bookcase a few feet away, in the position he had taken when Dean plopped down in the chair across from Sam.

Dean looked expectantly to the angel. He hadn't explained that part yet.

Was he imagining things, or did Castiel's shoulders slump down a little? "The seal is in the northeast portion of Indiana, near Fort Wayne."

"Oh, we've been to Fort Wayne before." Sam nodded easily. "The Bloody Mary case, remember?"

Dean squinted at Castiel. "Is that what you were talking about when you said I'd been there before? Because that was no big deal, man. We talked to a cop, then went on to the next clue."

"No. This is in the country, near the small town of Woodlan."

Oh.

_Oh._

Sam just frowned a little. "That doesn't sound familiar."

"You don't remember?" Dean watched his face carefully. "We lived there for three months, the summer I was eleven and you were seven."

"I don't know, Dean. We lived in a lot of places when I was seven." Sam scowled, the way he always did when they started talking about their childhood. "Do you remember where we lived when _you_ were seven?"

Dean sat back in his chair. "Well...no. But that's not the point." He put a tang of irritation in his voice, hiding his surging relief. He had always hoped that Sammy had forgotten that one. He certainly wished that he could. "It was the town with the awesome candy store. Remember that?"

Sam blinked, his face suddenly opening up in nostalgic pleasure. "Oh, man. That one? Dum-Dums for a nickel. Do you think they still have Dum-Dums for a nickel?"

He was clearly salivating at the thought, and Dean grinned, wide and goofy. "I dunno, dude. Guess we'll have to find out."

Sam already had his laptop flipped open, piggybacking on the city hall's limited wi-fi. "Maybe the store has a website. Almost everything has a website now."

Dean made a skeptical face, but he was glad for the slight misdirection. Let Sam remember all the good things about that summer, if he had to remember anything—bike rides and candy and fireflies and that awesome slide at the park. Dean would handle the rest.

A glance at Castiel found the angel still watching him, still serious and displeased. Dean didn't get it. But whatever. It wasn't his job to psychoanalyze the feathered folk.

"Oh, Dean..."

Sam's voice was worried. Dean snapped his head up to stare at him, dread tightening his chest. "What?"

"There's no motel in Woodlan. The closest one is about forty-five minutes away." A few more clicks as he checked another web page. "But, hey, there's a B&B just down the road...."

"Dude, no way! I am _not_ staying at a bed and breakfast with you, not now, not ever!"

Sam peered at him over the laptop's screen. "But breakfast is included, and it's usually really, really good. This one says traditional Amish dishes, fresh fruit in season..."

Dean cut him off with a loud gagging noise. "God, Sammy, no. That is not enough."

"What, you'd rather sleep in the car? In January, in Indiana?"

A calm voice interrupted. "I will handle the sleeping arrangements."

Both Dean and Sam snapped around to stare at Castiel. They had almost managed to forget that he was there. And now he was offering to find them a place to stay?

"How in the world, man?" Dean couldn't help staring in shock. He had never pinned Cas as the practical sort. And now it turned out that he had contacts on the ground? New one.

"Don't concern yourself with the details. It will be free of charge and pleasant, and I believe there may even be a chance for breakfast."

Dean and Sam looked at each other for a moment in blank confusion. Sam twisted his eyebrows in inquiry, and Dean gave a tiny shrug in return. Then they both nodded and turned back to Castiel.

"That would be cool. Thanks, man."

Castiel's expression lightened, as if his face had been hit by a beam of sunlight. And Dean even thought that maybe, maybe, that might be the slightest indication of a smile.

**~*~**

_Woodlan, Indiana — July, 1990_

The next morning, John woke with a stiff neck and a heavy heart, still leaning against the wall, fully dressed. He glanced down instinctively, looking for his son, but the bed was empty, the covers rumpled and thrown back.

He made his way downstairs and found his boys in the kitchen, Sammy sitting on the counter swinging his legs, Dean making toast with butter and a canister of cinnamon and sugar ready at his fingertips, the counter around the toaster scattered with crumbs. The older boy's eyes were a little red and puffy, but at least he'd showered and dressed in clean clothes, damp hair sticking up from his head in unruly spikes. The boys were arguing, of course, something about the best way to catch frogs and whether there were any to be found in the creek on the edge of town. John barely listened, too busy just looking at his sons, taking them in.

Sammy saw him first and greeted him with an exuberant wave. "G'morning, Daddy! Want some cinnamon toast?"

Dean had gone still, watching him, young face wary and intent. Waiting to see how John would react in the harsh light of day, probably, waiting for rejection, condemnation. John would have to step carefully here.

He grinned at his younger son and moved over to the counter to ruffle his hair. "That sounds delicious, squirt." He looked to Dean then, smiling warmly. "Dean makes good toast, doesn't he?"

Sam nodded hugely. "It's the best!"

"Do you want some to take with you on the way to town?" Dean still watched him closely, taking two pieces of toast from the toaster and popping in more slices of bread.

John shook his head. "I'm not going to town today."

The boys' eyes widened in disbelief. Sammy even gave a tiny gasp. "You aren't?"

"Nope." John chuckled and scooped the little boy off the counter, clasping him close and tickling his stomach until he laughed breathlessly, squirming against him and begging him to stop.

Dean's eyes were still dark, unbelieving. "Why not?"

John looked at him, stopped tickling Sam and just held him tight. "Well, it occurred to me that I've been here for a whole month now and I don't know anything about this town. Think you boys could give me a tour? I'm sure you've found all sorts of cool things."

"Sure have!" Sammy nodded against his shoulder, throwing one arm around his father's neck and squeezing. "We know _everything_ about Woodlan."

John started moving toward the dining room to set him down at the table, then paused and looked at his feet, frowning. "Um, boys? Why are my feet sticking to the floor?"

Dean shrugged unconcernedly, scraping butter over a piece of toast. "Because the floor is sticky?"

"What, you haven't mopped it? Ever?"

They stared at him with wide eyes. No, of course not. Why would it ever occur to them to mop the kitchen floor? Neither of them remembered what it was like to live in a house.

John sighed. "Well, I see I have some things to show you, too."

**~*~**

After that, things changed. Mostly in small ways, but in some big ones, too. John didn't go to the library for the rest of that week, guiltily trying to make up for time lost. He taught the boys how to mop and dust and vacuum, clean the toilet and wash the windows. He started a few small repairs around the duplex, the jobs he had promised their landlord in return for reduced rent, and let the boys shadow him, hand him tools, watch their daddy work. He did PT with them again, jogging, strength exercises, stretches, but decided to leave the sparring alone for awhile. They had time.

He asked questions, suddenly eager to know everything his boys were doing, everything they had discovered in Woodlan, everything they thought about everything around them. Dean was hesitant at first, unused to a father who was so intensely interested in his every deed and opinion. Sammy, though, was jubilant, chatting enthusiastically, and Dean gradually warmed to it, too. It made John ache, seeing the light in his sons' eyes, how surprised and happy they were that he actually wanted to spend time with them. Never again, he vowed. Never again.

John and Dean didn't talk again about what the boy had told him on that dark, desperate night, but the awareness of it was always sharp between them. John saw Dean's flinches now, his silent fears and momentary hesitations, and wondered how he could have been so blind to them before. There were just so _many_ of them....

He made a concerted to effort to touch the boy often, always letting him see his hand coming, the intention in John's face before he pulled him into a brief hug. At first Dean froze up every time, standing stiffly, merely enduring the touch on his shoulder, the clasp of his father's arms. Then, slowly, he began to accept the attention, leaning back into John's hand, melting into his embrace whenever it was offered.

In the beginning Sammy was rather confused by the new way of things, staring at his family in mute astonishment. Before long he was demanding his fair share of pats and hugs, though, and John willingly gave them. Then the little boy figured out that this was The Summer of Hugging Dean and threw himself into the project with delighted enthusiasm, wrapping himself around his big brother at every opportunity. This Dean tolerated with a heartfelt sigh and a heavenward glance for strength, but if it went on too long he muttered in exasperation and shoved Sam away, calling him every childish insult he'd ever heard or made up. Sammy ignored these, always going back for more.

John was strangely gratified that Dean never pushed _him_ away. But then, he didn't try to hold on as long as Sammy did, either.

**~*~**

On the Fourth, John took his boys to see the fireworks in Fort Wayne. He had become familiar with this small Midwest city by now, and it wasn't hard to find a parking spot on a college campus a few miles north of downtown, jostling with other locals for a good spot in the free parking. They took a "picnic basket" (actually a brown paper grocery bag recycled for the purpose) and a ratty shipping blanket John had stolen from some truckstop long back in the endless road trip that was their lives after Lawrence. They walked out on the grassy expanse near Coliseum Boulevard, the south border of the campus. Plenty of room to spread out there, and other families were also laying blankets and unpacking food.

A few blankets away, a teenage girl played folk songs on an acoustic guitar, her boyfriend listening with the dreamy smile of puppy love. In another summer Dean would have made a beeline to the music, asked her to play some AC/DC or Creedence Clearwater Revival. But today he just sat with his father and brother and listened, glancing over to see what was going on whenever the music faltered. The two lovebirds giggled when her fingers slipped or her notes soured, the gentle sound of young laughter drifting over the grass.

John and his boys ate baloney sandwiches and potato chips, licking the grease and salt from their fingers and wiping them on the blanket. They drank Kool-Aid from a communal jug, the plastic cups still setting forgotten on the counter at home. John had timed their arrival for sunset, and as twilight deepened a family nearby broke out boxes of sparklers, mother and father and five chattering, shoving children.

Apparently they had extras, because the father came over to their blanket and offered a box to Dean and Sammy, holding one lit gray stick spitting sparks and the smell of gunpowder. Sammy leaped up from where he'd been reclining against his father's side and accepted before John or Dean could say anything. The man smiled broadly and lit two sparklers with the one in his hand for the boys, giving the remainder to John.

Sammy spun in the grass with arms outstretched, waving the sparkler so that a ribbon of yellow-red light circled him. Dean was persuaded to join in, and they laughed and danced and ran and wrote their names in the air. John sat on the blanket and grinned, quick to provide new sparklers when the old ones sputtered, until the box was empty and his sons collapsed beside him, giggling and panting.

Soon enough full dark came and the show began. The boys sat next to their father, Dean on the right and Sam on the left, leaning against him with their faces turned up to the sky. Fireworks crackled and boomed and shivered in the stars, like a war above their heads, the smoke left behind drifting off invisible. Red and blue and white and green, flares of light dying too quickly, mayflies of celebration. John watched his sons' faces as much as he watched the sky, the light flickering over their awed expressions, young and innocent and his to care for, his to protect. His to fail.

The drive home was a headache and a half, hundreds of cars trying to leave the area at once, bumper to bumper and directed by annoyed-looking cops with flashlights and whistles. But Dean and Sammy slept peacefully in the backseat, spent and smiling and curled around each other. So it was worth it.

**~*~**

John couldn't help being sharply, painfully aware, now, of things he had never noticed before. A P.E. teacher had hurt his son. A _teacher._ He had seen the news specials, of course, the hour-long programs narrated by grim, flat voices about the dangers to children, the ploys such human monsters used, the prevalence of the crimes. He had talked to his sons very seriously about what to do if they ever faced such a menace, and mostly just ordered them to stay in the motel room with the door locked and chained when he was gone. Dean knew how to use a gun, and in a couple of years Sammy would know them, too. It was as much protection as he could give them.

But a _teacher._ How could you prepare for that? How could you prevent that? It wasn't like he could keep his boys out of school, lock them away from everybody and everything that had the slightest chance of harming them. As if that was even possible. Or useful. His boys would have to function in this dark, dangerous world someday—they should start learning how to do it now.

But a _teacher._ John could think of only one violation that could be worse, one twisting of a position of authority over a child that could be more damaging, more damning. One person meant to nurture and protect whose breaking of that trust could possibly be more unbearable.

And so he wondered about Eddie Stoller.

"Your buddy next door..." he asked Dean one night. They were playing checkers with a battered set they'd found in the garage, missing checkers replaced with milk caps and quarters. "You said he gets sick an awful lot."

Dean nodded absently, studying the board with fierce concentration. "Sammy and me always have to ask whenever we want to play with him, and sometimes it's yes and sometimes it's no."

"When I see him, he always seems pale and out of breath."

"I guess he doesn't get much exercise." Dean shrugged, arrogant and unconcerned as only a strong, healthy kid who had never had a serious injury or illness could be.

John watched him carefully as he made his next move, shoving one checker forward one square. Dean stared at his hand, intent on the game. "What do you think of Mrs. Stoller?"

"I dunno. She's nice, I guess. She pays me for mowing the yard and she gives Sammy cookies."

"Is she nice to Eddie?"

Dean looked up, frowning. Little wrinkles appeared between his eyes, seeming wrong, too hard for such a young face. He was thinking deeply, John saw, seriously considering the question.

"I don't know. She gets kinda...frustrated with him a lot, I think. Because he gets sick so much and spends so much time laying around and doesn't really help her with chores or anything, maybe. It's almost like he's a piece of furniture that she has to work around. But he doesn't seem scared of her or anything. And when we're out playing and he talks about her, it sounds just normal, the same way he talks about his dad. She has her own business that she does out of her house, and Eddie is proud of that. Kinda like me and Sam are proud of you."

John couldn't help grinning at that, truly and deeply touched. "You are, huh? You're proud of your old man?"

Dean smiled back a little shyly, but his eyes were bright and sincere. "Of course I am, Dad. You're a hero."

John looked back at the board, but he didn't stop smiling for the rest of the game. Dean beat him rather handily.

**~*~**

Dean lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The room trembled with the passing of another train, but Sammy slept on in the bed, tangled in the covers, one hand hanging over the edge of the mattress. Dean selfishly wished that his little brother would have a nightmare, so he would wake up panting and scared, so he would come over to Dean and crawl under the covers and bury his face in his big brother's chest and hold him tight until he fell asleep again. So Dean wouldn't have to lie here alone, frozen in the dark.

His chest felt heavy, full of lead, pinning him to the ground. Most of the time he was good at not thinking about it. He kept himself busy and he made sure he was with someone, and he didn't think about it. But sometimes when he was all alone in the black and the silence, it pounced on him like a monster in a cave, and he couldn't think about anything else.

Dean turned over on his side to face the wall, only inches from his nose. Why hadn't he yelled? He should have yelled. He should have punched Coach Peters in the stomach, the way his dad had taught him, poked him in the eye, stamped on his instep. Instead he'd been confused and frightened, hadn't figured out what was going on until it was too late and he was trapped. He should have been smarter. Faster. Stronger.

How was Dad supposed to trust him to take care of Sammy when he couldn't even take care of himself?

Every detail was sharp and immediate in his mind, as if it was happening again right now. His stupid brain couldn't leave it alone, instead going over every single thing again and again and again. He remembered the smell of stretched, used rubber from the basketballs, the metal of the cart cold and hard, digging into his flesh everywhere he was pressed against it. The way his hands were trapped under him, fingers curled weakly against his chest like dried-up worms, small and useless. The hot weight of Coach Peters all over him, heavy, crushing, driving the air from his lungs. The _wrongness_ of that, the rhythmic pushing, the soft grunts and huffs of air above his head.

The man's hand on his arm, pulling him up, his authoritative baritone voice ordering Dean not to tell anyone, not to make trouble, it was no big deal, just something he had to do. The next day, the rough callused fingers rubbing his hips, pushing past the flimsy protection of cloth, the slow pleasant smile in the hall so full of dark promises...

Dean pushed his forehead against the wall and shuddered convulsively, cold despite the July heat that bled in past the rattling air conditioner, the sheet and blankets covering him. So weak and stupid and useless. Why hadn't he yelled? Why hadn't he fought?

Maybe Dad was still awake. Dean knew he stayed up late sometimes, researching or planning the next hunt or going over everything he'd learned so far, constantly reviewing to keep himself sharp. Maybe Dean could help somehow.

He was on his feet and padding out into the hall before the idea had fully taken shape in his mind. But there weren't any lights on, no Dad bending over the dining room table surrounded with books and papers or in the garage cleaning his guns and sharpening his knives. Eventually Dean found himself standing in the doorway of his father's room, nudging the door frame with his toe and watching the rise and fall of the man's chest, trying to make himself go back to bed.

Dad's body went still suddenly, and Dean knew that he was awake, staring into the dark and trying to figure out what had woken him. Dean almost held his breath, dizzy and aching, wishing he was strong enough to sneak away and leave his father alone.

Dad sat up before he could make himself move, squinting across the room, shoulders flexing under his gray Marines t-shirt. "Dean? You have a nightmare?"

Dean shook his head numbly. "Couldn't sleep," he whispered.

The man let out a heavy sigh, then held out one arm, beckoning with his hand. "C'mere, kid."

He went to him, and just like that he was all folded up in his father's arms, held against that warm, strong chest, curled up practically in his lap. Dean clenched the gray t-shirt in desperate fingers and tried to pretend that he wasn't crying, just a little, tears leaking out to soak his dad's shoulder.

He felt Dad's lips on his forehead, another sigh gusting through his hair. "It's okay, sweetheart. You're gonna be okay."

Dean pressed his face into his father's chest, but really, he couldn't put up with that anymore. "Don't call me that," he got out between sniffles, his voice partly muffled. "'M not a girl."

Dad chuckled quietly, his chest vibrating under Dean's head. "Never said you were. But you _are_ my sweetheart. Have been since you were a teeny tiny baby and I could hold you in one hand."

"That's silly, Dad." Dean sighed, but he didn't push away, and he didn't let go of his dad's shirt.

"Well, I can be silly if I want. Nothing you can do to stop me."

Dean knew his dad was teasing—he _knew_ it—but that didn't stop his shoulders from locking up, his breath stuttering. Nothing he could do to stop him... Yeah, he knew that.

"Hey..." Dad's voice broke, and his hands moved up to Dean's shoulders, gripping tight, still holding him close. "Hey. I would never. I would never."

Dean swallowed, nodded, and then he started crying again, utterly incapable of stopping. So _stupid._ Why was he being so stupid?

What felt like a long, long time later, he finally ran out of tears and just lay there, hiccuping. His arms and legs were like rubber bands that had been stretched until they weren't stretchy anymore, limp and useless. He felt damp all over, his throat, eyes, and nose aching and plugged. It took him a while to realize that the top of his head was wet, too. That didn't make any sense at all.

"Dean..." Dad's voice was rough, phlegmy. He coughed, and his voice was clearer. "I won't call you that anymore if you don't want me to."

"No," Dean choked out. His voice was weak, but he meant it. "No, that's okay. I don't mind so much."

And he didn't. He could remember, if he thought back past the fire and the weight in his arms, the frantic run down the steps, the flames and smoke bursting out of the window as he stood on the cool lawn, staring. Dad had called him "sweetheart," then, when he was little and dumb and didn't know anything about what lived in the night. It was kinda nice to remember that stuff. And besides if Dad was saying it, it couldn't really be girly, because Dad was the manliest man there ever was.

"All right. All right." Dad shifted on the bed, though his arms didn't loosen around Dean's curled-up ball. "Hey, let's lie down, okay?"

Every muscle in Dean's body stiffened, completely against his will, but he forced himself to relax. Dad slowly eased them down, not making him do anything, waiting for him to come along, until Dad was flat on his back again with Dean tucked under one arm, head still resting on his father's chest. Dad's other hand reached over to card through his hair, somehow rough and gentle at the same time.

For long moments Dean listened to his father's heartbeat, steady and warm in the quiet dark, and he didn't think about anything else. Dad rubbed his back in smooth, firm strokes, in time with that strong, reliable beat.

"Dad?"

Dad's hand paused on his back, pressing warmly. "Mmm-hmm?"

"I want...I want to start sparring again."

Dad breathed in and out, once, twice, a third time. "Okay. If you're ready."

"I'm ready. I want to be able to fight."

"All right. We'll start tomorrow night."

Dean nestled his ear over his father's heart and finally found sleep.

**~*~**

Dean sparred like a maniac, as if every movement, every punch and jab and cross, was a matter of life and death. His young face was set and grim, too old, his eyes hard burning coals in his glistening face. His body was taut as strung wire, his fists concentrated points of power. For the first time in his son's life, John saw something to fear in this boy, Mary's sweet little child, Sammy's steadfast protector.

He could see the man Dean would become, the consummate hunter, graceful and compact, sheer muscled steel hidden under his good looks, his cocky smile. When they weren't sparring Dean was still Dean, teasing Sam and cracking stupid jokes and taking inordinate amounts of pleasure in whatever they happened to be eating for meals, especially if there were sweets involved. And so Dean would be as a man, John saw, wearing this exterior of childish humor and winking green-brown eyes that would instantly disappear whenever he was faced with something that needed killing.

John knew that this should disturb him, this new dichotomy he saw in his boy, the chasm that separated hunter from child, both halves equally powerful in the same eleven-year-old body. But all he could think was that this was good. This was exactly what Dean would need to survive their life and perhaps even thrive in his own way.


	4. Part 4

**Part 4: Some Rumors Going 'Round That Someone's Underground**

_Somewhere Between Pennsylvania and Indiana — January 2009_

Castiel had come with them on the salt-and-burn, standing motionless by the grave while Dean and Sam dug and sweated and sometimes cursed each other for getting in the way when their shovels clashed with a tooth-rattling ring of metal. The ghost didn't show up, perhaps because it was just one of those times when things went easily, perhaps because it didn't want to mess with the statue of unbearable radiance that was an angel of the Lord. In any case, it went smoothly and they were on the road the next morning, Dean occasionally casting a skeptical eye at their tag-along, wondering if he had even slept. Castiel hadn't come into their motel room and they hadn't invited him, so who knew what he had done all night. Stood outside the door like a dog on guard? Wandered over to the 24-hour place across the street for coffee and pie? Turned on his angel radio and had a lovely chat with his brothers?

Whatever. Dean didn't want to know. He wasn't curious or anything. Just idly wondering to pass the time. Definitely not looking in the rearview mirror every five minutes to keep an eye on the guy in the backseat, and definitely not thinking about the last time there had been an angel sitting back there, because that was just too freaking weird.

Castiel was completely different than Anna in every way, for one thing. Anna had been like a beam of sunlight, shining in on Dean's dark places and warming him, gently and sweetly, revealing too much but doing it out of kindness and a desire to help. And if Anna was the sun, Castiel was the moon, his radiance harsh and cold and silvered, beaming in from far out in the black void of space. He was uncomfortable and strange and made of sharp, hard angles, crazy, non-Euclidean shapes that didn't fit anywhere in the pragmatic world of Dean Winchester. His touch burned and his voice shattered glass and he wasn't here to perch on anyone's shoulder, that was for damn sure. Dean bet he didn't even like chocolate cake, and that was just plain wrong.

They stopped at a gas station, and Sam went inside for snacks and coffee while Dean manned the pump. Castiel slowly climbed out of the Impala and stood next to Dean on the concrete island, staring into the distance as if he could see their destination from here. Maybe he could.

"You remember Woodlan."

Dean shot Castiel a narrow glance, but the guy was still staring away, his face completely smooth and serene.

"Yeah," he said shortly, turning his eyes back to the pump. It was nice, having the gas prices so low, but Dean didn't expect it to stay that way. Better enjoy it while he could.

"It will be difficult for you to return there."

"Yep."

"Emotions and memories you have held buried for most of your life may resurface, causing you refreshed pain."

Dean huffed and pivoted away from the pump, glaring at the angelic pain in his ass. "What's your point?"

Castiel turned his head to face him, letting Dean see that his eyes were anything but serene. "You should tell your brother. He will want to support you."

"No way, man. I've put more than enough burdens on that kid lately. He doesn't need even more of my shit." Dean turned back to the pump, keeping his head down, refusing to look at Cas again.

"Sam is stronger than you think. He can shoulder more than you have given him."

Dean just shook his head, watching the numbers crawl upward. It didn't matter how strong Sam was. This wasn't his job, and Dean shouldn't have even told him what he already had.

Fortunately, Sam chose this moment to return from the gas station, cradling two cups of coffee between his arm and torso and frowning at something in his other hand. Dean raised his head to give him a sunny grin. "Why the long face, Sasquatch?"

Sam looked up, still frowning prodigiously. "I wanted some Laffy Taffy, but dude, they aren't the same. Look it!"

He held up the colorful pieces in his hand. Instead of the blocky squares Dean remembered from childhood, these were oblong and flat, wrapped in thin plastic wrappers instead of waxed paper. Dean nodded sagely, well-versed in the ways of candy.

"They've been that way for awhile now. What, you didn't buy any Laffy Taffy at Stanford?"

Sam shook his head, stopping by the Impala to set the coffee down on the hood. He opened a piece of taffy and stuck the neon red stuff in his mouth, then stared at the blank wrapper in disappointment. "Where are the jokes?"

Dean took the wrapper from his hand and turned it right-side out. "They're on the outside now, hidden under the crease. See? Oh, man, you tore this one." He held the two pieces together at the tear, trying to read the joke.

"I like the old way better." Sam was still frowning, his tone the same as that of an elderly geezer decrying the activities of "kids these days."

"What, where the jokes would be cut off sometimes and you couldn't see the answer or the question? You liked that better?"

Sam nodded sadly, his eyes large and round. He looked seven years old again, concerned about nothing but finding pennies and acquiring as much candy as possible. Dean grinned at him, warmed to the core. "Okay, I got this one. What does Batman's mom say when she calls him in for supper?"

Sam's forehead wrinkled. "Batman doesn't have a mother. By the time he was Batman she had died."

"Yes, yes, I have taught you well, young Padawan." Dean nodded solemnly. "But seriously. What does she say?"

"I give up. Why don't you tell me?"

"Dude, you didn't even try!"

Sam sighed gustily and turned his head sideways to glare at him.

Dean raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay!" It was not a good idea to get between Sammy and his Laffy Taffy jokes. He gave the answer in a rapid sing-song. "Dinner dinner dinner dinner dinner dinner dinner dinner, BATMAN!"

Somehow, Castiel's blank stare at them both made it even better. They were cracking up all the way through that half of Ohio.

**~*~**

_Woodlan, Indiana — August, 1990_

July had been a great month. Dad did so much stuff with them it was hard to believe that this was the same man who had been so absent in body and mind during the entirety of June. Sammy didn't even whine about doing chores when it was Dad giving the orders instead of Dean. He only went on one hunting trip the whole month, just a weekend thing, Saturday and Sunday and he was back on Monday just like he promised, a little grim around the edges but smiling brightly and catching the boys in his arms as soon as he stepped in the door.

Deep down, Dean knew he should feel guilty about it instead of enjoying having Dad around so much. He knew what had caused the change. Dad had started sticking around more after he found out about Dean's massive screw-up with Coach Peters, after he realized that his oldest son couldn't be trusted to take care of just himself, let alone his innocent little brother. That was why Dad had spent so much time at home, because he knew that Dean shouldn't be left alone, weak and pathetic as he was. So Dean had thrown himself into the training and worked his butt off to prove himself. He knew it was almost impossible now, after his terrible, terrible mistake, but he had to try.

At long last he knew that it had worked, because Dad started spending more time at the library again. One morning at breakfast Sammy asked, "Can we play baseball again tonight?" and Dad didn't even look up from the newspaper to say "Sorry, kiddo, there's something I have to look into this evening." Sammy's face practically fell into his cereal, and Dean felt bad for him, and for himself. But he was also glad and relieved, because that meant that Dad was trusting him to keep watch at night again instead of coming home early to do it himself.

Maybe, if Dean was very, very good, Dad would even tell him what this one was about. Sometimes he did that—sometimes he told Dean about the case he was working on, taught him about the methods of killing and tracking and fighting he would need to use against this particular threat. Dean never felt more important and grown-up than he did then, when Dad treated him like a fellow hunter. Those times were few and far between, though, since Dean was still mostly a useless kid. Someday he was going to help his dad on every single hunt, though. Someday.

But Dad didn't tell him about this one. He was completely absorbed in the hunt, didn't even notice when his feet started sticking to the kitchen floor again. Dean saw a newspaper article about some freak electric storms and heard gossip around town about a cow being killed in a weird way out on the Neuenschuander farm, and he figured those things probably had something to do with it. It was probably really important, and his dad was going to be a hero and save people from horrible things again.

Dean didn't mind, really he didn't. Dad's work was important and Dean understood that; he _wanted_ his father to do it. He just wished that he could help, sometimes.

**~*~**

Dad hadn't even blinked when Dean asked for permission for Sam and him to go to Eddie Stoller's birthday party. Just said, "Oh, Megan Stoller's in charge? I'm sure it will be fine." Dean didn't bother telling him all the details about it, since it was clear that his father was too busy to deal with it right now. Anyway, Metea Park was only a few miles away from Woodlan, so it shouldn't be any problem, right?

So here they were at Eddie's swimming party, Dean trying not to feel stupid in his threadbare trunks and holey t-shirt, Sammy too young and too dumb to care, laughing gleefully as he splashed in the dirty brown water of the pond. The other boys—and there were a bunch of them—mostly had newish-looking clothes, or at least ones with no holes. No one said anything, but Dean felt it, nonetheless. They were different. They were Winchesters.

"All right," a harried-sounding Mrs. Stoller said after a few hours of pre-teen boys splashing and rough-housing and trying to kill each other in the water. Her hair was standing up on her head and her eyes were wide, and Dean knew that she had been trying to watch everyone at once, trying to make sure they were safe. He knew, because he'd been doing the same thing. "All right, you kids, go take a hike."

The boys laughed, but she was serious. She made them dry off and get dressed, then handed out trail maps and safety whistles. Metea Park was mainly a nature preserve, with acres of meadows and woods and at least a dozen trails. Dean and Sam were assigned to take one of the back trails. "Remember the buddy system, and don't waste too much time," Mrs. Stoller ordered in a voice that was scarily like Dad's. "By the time you get back Eddie's dad will be here and we'll have grilled hot dogs and cake and ice cream."

With a ragged chorus of cheers, the group wandered off. Sam trotted at Dean's elbow, avidly reading the trail map and quickly beginning to whine about their given route. "It's all the way in the back, and it's called the _Mound_ Trail. What does that even mean? It sounds boring. I wish she had given us the Butterfly Trail. That sounds cool. Or the Wildflower Trail. I bet there are a bunch of them out this time of year."

Dean smirked, all set to tease his brother mercilessly for being so eager to see butterflies and flowers, for pity's sake. Honestly, he didn't care, as long as the Winchester brothers were together. He shuddered to think of the trouble Sam could have gotten into without Dean to keep an eye on him. No matter which boy Sam was paired with, the other kid wouldn't have stood a chance against the younger Winchester's persuasive abilities. Orders would have been disobeyed and trails switched, and it just would have been a total disaster.

The Mound Trail turned out to be pretty cool, though. It was in the woods, at first a new-growth forest, hundreds of smaller trunks and unruly underbrush, but then it gave way to an old-growth area, enormous trunks, heavy leaves above shutting out the sun. It was like being in a temple. With air-conditioning. Sammy quit complaining, staring around in fascination. Mrs. Stoller had picked a good one for them, after all.

Eventually they reached the mound that gave the trail its name. Dean could see that it was unnatural, a grass-covered hill rising too smooth and symmetrical and round, like the man-made hill near the new park in Woodlan, though this one was far, far older. There was a feeling of ageless centuries, here, a timeless waiting, a sense of ancient, patient anticipation, as if the people who had built this place had only stepped out for a moment and would return soon. The old-growth trees ended abruptly on the edge of the mound, as if the forest did not dare to set foot there. It made all the hairs on Dean's back stand up, gooseflesh rippling across his arms and neck.

Sam read aloud the enormous trail marker that stood nearby, eyes wide, voice hushed. "'These mysterious mounds have been built all over the United States, and many Midwest states possess one or two. As with Stonehenge in England and the ziggurats in South America, their builders have passed out of memory, as has the purpose of these strange structures. Metea Park's mound is thought to have been constructed by the Miami tribe, perhaps for some religious or cultural reason, but the significance has been lost.' Oh, man, Dean, this is _so cool."_

"Yeah, cool," Dean said. "C'mon, we gotta get back. Hot dogs, man. I'm starving."

Sammy ignored him, stepping off the trail and onto the slope of the mound. "C'mon, Dean, let's check it out! We came all this way—we can't leave now!"

Dean shifted from foot to foot, shoulders rising to his ears. He didn't want to be here, but he couldn't say why. "Come...come on, Sam. We're not supposed to go off the trail. It's not safe."

Sam actually turned around at that, though he didn't step back toward the trail, just stared at his brother with his mouth hanging open. He didn't have to say it aloud. _When did you start caring about the rules?_

Dean scowled fiercely, but finally shook himself and stepped forward. "Fine, fine, I'm coming. But if we get caught, this was your idea."

"Sure!" Sam peeped cheerily, already racing to the top, small frame bathed in the sudden sunlight after the shade of the trees. "C'mon, let's see if it's as fun to roll down this hill as the one in Woodlan."

Dean followed as quickly as he could make himself, racing to Sam's side. No matter what, he should stick with his little brother. "Nah, don't roll down this one. You could hit the trees."

Sam saw the sense in this and contented himself with running from one side of the mound to the other, arms outflung, yelling what he thought were Indian war whoops. After a while Dean, too, lost his trepidation, and they ran and raced and chased, then fell on each other wrestling in the soft, green grass. Dean could have won easily, as always, but he let Sam get the upper hand. The boy grabbed Dean in a headlock that stretched his shorter arms to their limit and rolled them both over into a spot where the ground felt suddenly soft, spongy and weird....

And then, with twin yells of shock and fear, they fell through the earth into a place that was dark and cold and terrifying, far from the sun.

**~*~**

"Dean?" Sam's voice was tiny, shaking uncontrollably. "Where are we?"

Dean coughed and tried to sit up. He could feel the loose dirt that covered his body sliding off with the movement, though plenty of it still stuck to him, damp and clammy. It felt gross, awful, intolerable—pretty strange, since he usually didn't mind being dirty.

It was dark, really dark, yet somehow Dean was able to see, though dimly. Like everything was lit with some sort of dim, blue light. It made him think of the chapters one of his teachers last year had read from _The Lord of the Rings,_ the barrow-down, the corpse lights, though he didn't know why those phrases came to him and felt so right.

Sitting up wasn't going so good. He coughed again, and groaned, letting his head fall back into the cold dirt. Why did his chest hurt so bad?

"Dean?" Small hands fumbled for him, soft fingers brushing over his face, then digging into the shoulders of his t-shirt and hanging on. "Dean? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I think I landed on you when we fell."

Dean raised a shaking hand to his chest, almost patting himself down. His ribs ached, and breathing was kinda painful, but nothing felt cracked or broken. It was okay. He was going to be okay.

He had to be okay, because this was a bad, bad situation, and he and Sammy were stuck right in the middle of it. With a sudden ferocity that left him momentarily breathless, Dean longed for his father. Dad would know what to do. Dad would take care of everything.

"D-D-Dean?" Sam's trembling fingers stroked over his face again, then pressed hard on his cheeks, sharp and desperate. "Why'd you quit breathing? Dean!"

Dean sucked in a breath, steeling himself against the pain. He had to be strong. Sam was just a little kid, and he didn't know what was out there. Dean had to take care of him.

He pushed himself ruthlessly to sitting, ignoring the way his ribs cried out, though he couldn't quite stifle a small, harsh gasp that seemed to echo around them, instantly eaten up in the cold, still air. "'Sokay, Sammy. 'S gonna be okay."

His own voice almost scared him, though. It hardly sounded like him at all. He wasn't surprised when Sammy let out a tiny, frantic sob and latched onto him with both arms, clinging to his neck. "Dean! Dean Dean Dean Dean Dean! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't've made you play on the hill, you were right, we shoulda stayed on the trail..."

"Sammy, Sammy, shh, it's okay." He patted the kid's back clumsily with one dirty hand, still fighting for breath. "We just gotta...we just gotta stay still and figure this out, okay? What does Dad say when he sends us out in the woods to practice finding our way back?"

Sam sat still, though his chest still heaved against Dean's arm, far too fast, and Dean could feel the little guy's heart beating quick quick quick. "Don't go harin' off into the trees," he said after awhile, unconsciously deepening his voice in an imitation of their father.

"Right, yeah, you can't let yourself get panicked. That just gets you worst lost. Gotta, gotta...take stock. Then you make a plan and follow through."

"Okay." Sam's voice was still small, but it wasn't shaking so bad now. "Take stock."

"Right. So...where are we?" Dean had lost time there for a bit, he knew that—he must have blacked out. No use telling Sam that, though. Just let the kid answer questions as if this was another training exercise.

"We fell through the dirt? And we landed down here. And I don't know where here is, but it's dark and cold and scary."

Sammy was still clinging to him with both arms and seemed inclined to wrap his legs around Dean, too, but that was okay. "Right. We fell through the dirt." Dean craned his head back to look up, but couldn't really see a hole or anything above them. There were some pinpricks that might be daylight, but they seemed distant, unreachable. "So we're...we're inside the mound, I guess."

"We have to get out of the mound," Sam said, trying to make his voice firm, even though it persisted in wobbling. "We're missing the hot dogs and cake and ice cream."

"Yeah, that sucks." Dean stretched out his hands and found the wall, sheer and steep, loose dirt that slid under his fingers, the dark brown, clay-y topsoil of Indiana. "Let me get up."

Sam slowly disentangled his limbs from Dean, then pushed to his feet and helped Dean up, pulling on his big brother's arm with both hands and grunting ostentatiously with the effort. Dean placed his hands against the wall, then his feet, tried to see if climbing was possible. It wasn't. He just kept sliding down, and though he landed on his feet every time, the repeated shocks made his chest hurt even more.

"Okay, we can't go up." He kept his voice calm, even though it was really, really hard. "We have to find another way out." The area they were in looked like it narrowed down into a tunnel, but Dean didn't want to go down it. His belly felt full of stones at the very idea. But what choice did they have? "Okay. Keep taking stock. What supplies do we have?"

Both boys emptied their pockets. Dean had gum wrappers, a few dollars in change and crumpled bills. Sam had two pieces of pink chalk, six jellybeans crusted with lint, a yo-yo, and a thick loop of string he'd been using to learn to play cat's cradle with one of the little girls at the houses where Dean mowed. Neither of them had any water or walkie talkies or anything. The trail map was pretty useless here, but Dean stuck it in the back of his jeans anyway. The safety whistle, though, had been jammed with dirt somewhere in the fall, and only made a _thhbbb_ noise when they tried to blow it.

Dean picked up the yo-yo, squinting at it in the blue light. It was one of those big, trick ones with a super-long string, the most expensive one the drug store carried. "All right, we can use this. We gotta keep track of each other." Sam didn't even peep in protest as Dean unwound the string and snipped it off with his teeth, then undid the knot on his cat's cradle string and tied the two lengths together. It was pretty long, enough to go around a few corners, maybe. "You hold one end and I'll hold the other, so no matter how dark it gets we won't lose each other, okay?"

Sammy took his end of the string and held on tight. "Dean...I'm scared."

"Don't worry. They'll figure out we're missing and come looking for us. And maybe we'll even find our own way out of here."

Still, the boy just kept staring at him, eyes so wide that Dean could see a glimpse of white, made blue and alien by the weird light. Dean melted, of course. He always melted.

"Okay, I'll tell you what. This string is pretty long. You hold onto your end and you sit here where we know it's okay. I'll scout ahead, and when I know it's safe, I'll tug on the string and you follow me. And then we do it again, and again, until we're out. How's that?"

Sam nodded, the movement huge and exaggerated in the dimness, just to make sure Dean got it.

"All right. Here goes. Sit tight."

Dean walked into the darkness.

**~*~**

Everything looked the same. Dean tried to keep track in his head, tried to make a mental map the way Dad taught them to do on those wilderness training missions. But it was all just one cold blue tunnel after another, no differences that he could see, nothing distinguishable in the dark. Every time he tugged the string to bring Sammy forward, he wished he hadn't, because he wasn't truly certain that it was safe. Nothing felt safe. He didn't want to lie to his little brother, make him believe it was safe when it wasn't, but they needed to keep moving forward, and Sammy was so scared....

The feeling of old patience was much stronger down here. Dean didn't feel like there were eyes on him—he felt like he was _inside_ the eye of some terrible enormous creature, and even if it blinked it would still see him, because he was too close for hiding, no matter what he did. And worse, his little brother was in the same fix, and Dean couldn't get him away, couldn't cover him up from the all-seeing presence. Terror beat incessantly in his chest, wearing him down with every step.

The only real measure of time's passage was his steadily increasing hunger, then his thirst. Oh, he longed for those hot dogs, that cake and ice cream. He was careful not to mention it, though, didn't want to torture Sammy with the thought of what they couldn't have. So far the younger boy seemed too scared to even think about being hungry, and Dean wanted to spare him anything he could, even something that small. Eventually he knew that that meal had to be long, long gone, it had been such a length of time since they'd fallen into this sullen blue underworld, and yet his stomach continued growl. Hadn't they noticed that the Winchester boys were missing yet? Hadn't they sent help? What was taking them so long?

Maybe Sam and Dean should stop moving, just sit still and wait for help. But that had never been John Winchester's way, despite what they told you in the safety classes at school. If you were in trouble, if you were in a dangerous situation with no help in sight, you never, ever just sat on your ass and waited for someone to rescue you. Cops and firefighters didn't even know half of what was out there to threaten innocent civilians, and you couldn't count on that one-in-a-hundred-thousand hunter to miraculously appear, either. It was you or nothing.

After what seemed like years and years of crawling half-blind in the dark, Dean saw something different up ahead. A hint of light that was red, not blue. Dean did not find this at all reassuring. If anything, his heartbeat sped up even more.

Hand trembling delicately, Dean fumbled his way back along the string to Sam, found his little brother standing rigid with fear, hunched shoulder pressed into the dirt wall. "Sammy, I see something ahead, but I'm not sure what it is, if it's safe. It's farther than the string, but I don't want you to follow yet, okay? I'll come back as soon as I know it's all right."

Sammy's hand darted out, still clenching the string in twisted knots, and bit into Dean's forearm, nails too long despite the biting they'd been subjected to in the past hours. "You promise, Dean? You promise you'll come back?"

"As soon as I know it's safe, yeah. I swear I will."

Sam raised his shaking pinky finger, and Dean laughed breathily and pinky swore, doing his best to keep his voice solemn despite the hysterical giggles that threatened to overpower him. "Coming back, Sammy. No big deal. Everything's hunky dory."

Sammy giggled a little—they both thought that phrase was hilarious—but his nod was anything but lighthearted. "Okay, okay. I'll wait for you to come back."

Dean hesitated, then grabbed his brother in a quick, impulsive hug. "Gonna be fine, dude," he murmured in the soft, too-long hair.

Sam was small in his arms, clutching back desperately for a moment, then letting go and pushing him away. "Get outta here, then. Sooner you go, sooner you come back."

"Yeah, yeah, exactly."

Dean let go of the string and walked toward the red light.

**~*~**

The light was still cold, which didn't make sense, because red was supposed to feel warm, right? But the closer Dean got to the source of that light, the colder he felt. It wasn't right, nothing was right, but he had to keep going.

The sameness of the tunnels finally gave way to something new, a cramped chamber that looked like it should be bigger than it felt. Candles, a firepit, a...a table covered with a cloth and...and stuff Dean didn't recognize...a figure in dark robes, just standing there, watching, waiting, face invisible in the shadow of the hood...

Dean felt the room go all swimmy and stumbled back a few steps, his shoulder hitting the wall, sore ribs crying out at the jolt. His breath was suddenly harsh and loud in his ears, a rusty rasp. Who...what... Nothing made sense. Nothing made sense. The oppressive feeling of the place was overpowering here, terrifying, taking all the strength out of his legs. He knew now that he was going to die here. He was going to die, and so was Sammy, and no one would even find their bones.

"Where is your brother, Dean?"

The voice was too light, too gentle. Dean didn't see how it could possibly be real, how that sweet tone could possibly match the dark, malevolent figure that loomed over him. A knife glinted in the red light, swooping slowly forward until it paused under his chin.

"Where's little Sammy? We're just waiting for him, and then the festivities can begin."

Dean's whole body shivered, caught in the throes of winter, so far from the August above ground. He didn't understand. Why was that voice so familiar?

"Nuh...nuh...no."

It was all he could manage. One stuttered syllable, but he meant it with everything he had. _No._ Not Sammy. Not here, not now, not ever.

"Come now, little Dean. I've been waiting so patiently. Years and years and years. He has the spark, the tang, that little something extra." He...it...she...she licked her lips, thick and wet as two fat slugs. "The two for one deal is nice, I won't lie, but it's Sam I want."

"Muh...Mrs. Stoller?"

Her? Eddie's mother. The kind lady who gave them lemonade and cookies and paid Dean more than he was worth to mow her lawn. What was this?

She chuckled, low and sugar-soft. "Not exactly."

Dean felt himself being turned to ice, paralysis creeping up from his feet, through his body, freezing his throat, reaching icy tendrils into his brain until all thoughts were turned to mush. Dad had taught him a little about monsters, but not enough, he didn't know, he didn't know what could make itself look human, what could steal a person's body and speak with their voice. He had no weapons and he was just a kid and it was the same as last time, just the same, he couldn't move he couldn't move and what was he supposed to do?

_Hunter's son._ Dean closed his eyes as the knife pressed closer, tickling his cold skin with its slender heat. _You're a hunter's son. You're John Winchester's son, damn it. Act like it!_

"Come now, my dear, don't be a troublemaker. Give me what I want, like a good little boy."

The punch was pure instinct, evenings in the backyard and afternoons spent practicing alone translating his sudden rush of adrenaline into the dart of a fist, just one solid strike, one hit like a small stone thrown into a lake sending ripples all along the surface. Small, such a small impact, not enough, but at least he could see it, could see that he'd done it, made a mark however fleeting. It was all he got, one good hit, and then the hands grabbed him, shook him and tore him nearly to pieces from the inside out, but his one punch was powerful, and that was a comfort.

"I won't tell you where Sammy is!" he was screaming, and that was a triumph, too. "I won't I won't I won't!"

**~*~**

Dad's voice shouted "Christo!" and some other words Dean didn't know, a surge of Latin like a tide. Flashes of light burst on the other side of Dean's closed eyelids, red and blue being overcome by something else. Like the fireworks on the Fourth of July, beautiful and shattering, covering the sky, then gone. Dad's hands on his cheeks, patting, soothing, begging him to wake up, asking him where Sammy was. Dean wanted to respond, but he didn't know the answer.

Then there was a different kind of darkness, a breeze, and the shadows were speckled with stars. Dad had carried him, like that day when Dean fell apart and yelled in the backyard, the day Dad finally found out. The relief of it was similar, too, being borne away from something twisted and terrible into a place that was more open, more free, though it was still night out. Dad's arms were strong and sure, and they had taken him here.

Dean opened his eyes, then, and found them full of moonlight. He was laying in the cool grass at the bottom of the mound, a cavernous black opening gaping beside him, smelling of spiderwebs and death. Just like Frodo's barrow-down. Dean shuddered and turned on his side, and there was Dad sitting next to him, waiting, shotgun at his side.

"Dad," Dean croaked. He was so thirsty. Not hungry, though. Maybe never again. "You have to go get Sammy. Don't let him see. Carry him and make him hide his face. I don't want 'im to know."

Dad nodded quickly, gently, but didn't immediately move. Then Dean realized that his father was stroking his hair, long thick fingers carding through, sifting out the dirt of the tunnel, the fear of that long walk through changeless paths. "I'm sorry, bud. Shoulda saved you from this."

"This..." Dean blinked, swallowed. "This was your hunt?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, I didn't know it was Megan Stoller. Just knew it had to be someone near by. A demon, a witch, I don't know, I don't care. She wanted to sacrifice a child. The blood...powerful stuff, kiddo. No wonder Eddie was always sick. She must have been draining him for years. This mound... It wasn't built by Indians. Or if it was, they were witches and demons, too."

"Is it dead?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's dead."

Dean turned over on his back and blinked up at the stars, breathing the fresh cool air of summer night. "Go get Sammy. He must be awfully scared."

"All right. All right. I'll be right back."

**~*~**

Daniel Stoller had organized a search party when his wife failed to return from fetching the two young boys who were taking too long on their hike, but before the rescuers arrived, the mound had been gutted with salt and fire.

The Winchesters moved out of Woodlan the next week.


	5. Part 5

**Part 5: Can't Carry Myself Can't Carry Me Home**

_Woodlan, Indiana — January, 2009_

Usually, when they reconned a town, everything was new. They absorbed all the details they could, tried to get a feel for the place and the people who lived there. They made note of where the restaurants, grocery stores, bars, and motels were, hospitals, clinics, pharmacies, any likely spots for the locals to mingle. Sam always rather enjoyed that, coming to a new place and learning all its tricks and shortcuts, its alleyways and hidden treasures.

Here, though, everything he saw dug at something deeply buried. Every discovery was an old one, though there were gaps, new additions. Not very many, though. This was a town where very little ever changed. No bar or motel or hospital, but a doctor's office expanded into the space where there used to be a tiny family pharmacy, now replaced by the enormous Walgreens in the next town.

Sam began to realize, as he watched and wondered and remembered, that this town had always been his ideal. In later years, when he yearned for a nameless, faceless _normal_ and _safe_ and _good,_ he was thinking about Woodlan, its shady narrow residential streets and rows of touristy gift shops, Amish buggies tethered in the parking lot of the coin laundry and the fields of corn and soybeans all around.

They were memories without details, yet, indistinct and soft on the edges, impressions more than events. But he began to think that perhaps the reason Woodlan had always epitomized "safe" to him was because something bad had happened before they arrived, after they left, one or the other or both. Not in Woodlan, but surrounding it, making Woodlan a haven, an oasis, a harbor of normal in a sea of chaos.

And he thought that maybe the bad things hadn't happened to him, because surely he would have remembered anything like that, no matter the intervening years. Maybe they had happened to Dean.

Dean was quiet as they drove through town, checking things out, until they came to the General Store on Main Street. It looked exactly the same, false western-style front painted fading blue, big red sign with yellow lettering, antique advertising signs, warped boardwalk porch. A building from the last century standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the thoroughly modern concrete-and-glass bank next to it, both a buggie and a Toyota Camry parked in front.

Dean was all smiles and nostalgic laughter then, eager to see if they still sold Dum-Dums for a nickel, and Sam was abruptly a child again, thinking of nothing but flavored sugar as his ultimate good in life. Castiel—silent in the backseat this whole time, just watching and listening—followed them inside, a strangely wide-eyed man in a long coat. Sam half-expected to draw stares, the three of them, but the people here were a mixture of working class and farm country and middle-suburbanite, and the Winchesters in their battered jeans and jackets with their flannel shirts and Castiel in his messy trench coat and loose tie stood out not at all.

The interior of the candy store had been rearranged, walls knocked out so the place was more open, but it also seemed far more crowded with product, ostentatiously "Handmade!" and "Amish!" and "Country!" The place had been kitsched up, and Sam was vaguely disappointed. The candy selection was just as wide and varied as he remembered, though, perhaps more so.

Strange to stand here, at the counter of candy, looking at the spanning shelves of Jelly Bellies. He remembered this shelving unit as enormous, towering, a heady delight, a paradise, too large, it seemed, to ever be exhausted. Now the top shelf was on Sam's eye-level, and everything was impossibly small, dwarf-like.

Dean was having similar problems, his now-six-foot frame too broad and muscular for the narrow aisles between hand-labeled jars of jelly and bags of soup mix. He turned a corner and knocked over a stack of Mountain Taffy, then said "Sorry, sorry," to the little-old-lady cashier, who grinned at him good-naturedly over her big brass cash register and told him not to worry about it, happened all the time.

Castiel was the only one of them who seemed to have no trouble moving in the small space, sliding effortlessly through the room like a feather floating on a breeze. But then, he had been making himself unobtrusive for the entire trip, insinuating himself into the Impala, into Sam and Dean's lives, as if he had always been there. If Sam took the time to think about it, he might get a little freaked out. So he didn't.

Dum-Dums weren't a nickel anymore. You had to get a whole big bag of them. Sam did it, paid at the big cash register with its cheerful little bell, then turned to his brother. "Let's go to that hill by the new playground and eat these."

Dean grinned and led the way back to the car.

Sam remembered yellow-green grass, short and scratchy on the man-made hill, hot July sun and fluffy clouds, laying on his back next to Dean and making up stories. Winter now and the grass was brown and dead, the sky a featureless, gun-metal gray, but it wasn't too cold to sit out. They opened the bag of Dum-Dums and set it between them, devouring sucker after sucker, watermelon and cherry and butterscotch and mystery flavor, dropping the little sticks around them like harmless cigarette butts and sitting with their heels in the dirt and their elbows resting on their knees. Castiel wandered around the playground, eventually settling on the swings, where he sat and swayed gently back and forth, not reaching for the sky, just sitting. He looked like a business man taking a lunch break, trying to recapture a piece of lost childhood, and Sam supposed that it might be an accurate description, only without the "re."

They could see the duplex from here, hidden behind a sparse screen of trees, separated from the playground only by a short walk and a picturesque wooden bridge over a tiny crick. More memories were surfacing the longer they sat here, eating candy in companionable silence. Sam remembered mowing lawns, fireflies, Dean's beloved red bike. Wondered what had happened to it when they moved, if the next tenants had cared for it as a treasured symbol of childhood freedom or put it out with the trash first chance they got. He remembered Dean racing the buggies, laughing and whooping, eyeing the bearded men and bonnet-wearing women with a challenging grin. Dean had always been pretty weirded out by the Amish, couldn't understand why they preferred horses—big, smelly, always dropping their shit all over the street—when cars were so much cooler and faster.

"Remember the Fourth?" Dean asked, grinning around his latest Dum-Dum. "Dad took us to that college campus to see the Fort Wayne fireworks, what was the name?" He bounced his leg. "Mr. Stoller called it I Paid For What...IPFW!" He snapped his fingers, pointed at something in the distance. "Man, that was awesome. We got sparklers and everything."

"Yeah," Sam said, even though he didn't remember that one at all.

Sam's mind was busy picking at something else, some memory, but a treasured one. One he had tried to stick in his mind, because it had seemed important, because Dean had said it was important, and seven-year-old Sammy believed his big brother more than he believed anything else in the whole entire world...

_Dean's voice was young and flat and hard, a coldness in it that made Sammy shudder. He'd never heard Dean sound quite like this, so utterly and completely serious, the solemnity of it filling his voice so full that there was no room for teasing, for exasperation, for big-brother bossiness. This was the most important thing Dean had ever told his baby brother, and Sammy needed to remember it forever and always._

"If anyone ever tries to grab you, or touch you, you know, in a bad place? Or even if you just think he might, if he's making you scared a-and you're not sure why...or, or for some reason you feel like you shouldn't be alone with him, but he keeps trying to get you somewhere where it's just you and him... Don't you stand for that, Sammy. Don't you put up with that. You scream and yell and hit him. Say 'This isn't my dad!' and 'Don't touch me like that!' and you keep yelling and screaming until someone hears you, okay? Kick him in the nuts or stomp on the inside of his foot, go for his eyes or throat if he's close enough. You use your elbows and your knees and everything you got and you don't just take_ it, you understand me? You don't take it. You don't let it happen."_

Sam blinked and came out of it. Dean's now-adult voice washed over him, still prattling on about some happy summer memory, but Sam heard no words. At the time it had made perfect sense that Dean would be the one giving him such serious advice, these very solemn safety instructions. Dean taught him everything, far more than teachers and school, and Sammy soaked up all the learning he could get from his awesome big brother. But now...now he wondered what had made Dean say that. What had made him give such clear and explicit directions.

Dean had only been eleven. How had he known to say such things? That wasn't supposed to be an eleven-year-old's job.

_You don't just _take_ it, you understand me? You don't take it. You don't let it happen._

Sam took the Dum-Dum out of his suddenly slack and nerveless mouth, unable to taste it any longer with his mouth so full of bitterness and salt. _God._ God, what had happened to Dean in that long-ago summer, the one he now spoke of so easily and sweetly, as if it had been nothing but sunny days and clear nights?

"Dean..."

He didn't even know what he was going to say, which was fine, because Dean chose that moment to hop to his feet, grab the remaining Dum-Dums, and start striding down the hill to the Impala. "C'mon, dude, we should go get the lodging situation sorted out before it gets too late."

Sam stared after him for a moment, then jumped up and hurried after. "Hey, Dean. I want to go by the old duplex. You know, for old times' sake."

Sam didn't think he was imagining the uneasiness in the smirk Dean tossed back at him. "Reminiscing, Sammy? Stuff coming back to you?"

"A little, yeah. But it was a long time ago. I don't really remember that much."

Dean's stride smoothed out, confident, serene. "Castiel!" he bellowed. "We're taking off."

The angel slid off his swing and came to them, as mild as a lamb. Sam gave him a speculative stare, then looked away when Castiel met his gaze.

They drove the Impala by the duplex and indulged themselves with some nice long stares, but no one seemed to be home. Sam had hoped that it would spark more memories, something to back up the queasy suspicion that was beginning to build inside him, but nothing came to him. The sidewalk in front of the place made him think of hopscotch, though, for some inexplicable reason.

"All right, Cas," Dean said as they pulled away, back onto the main drag (such as it was). "You wanna tell us where we're going to spend the night? And while you're at it, ready to explain about this seal and what we're supposed to do?"

"Go west out of town," Castiel said. "I will direct you."

"West is toward Metea Park." Dean put his arm on the back of the seat and half-turned in his seat to look at their passenger. "It has something to do with that, doesn't it?"

"With what?" Sam piped up, not really expecting an answer.

But Dean sat straight and looked forward again, his face blank and silent but his eyes like a shout. Or a scream. "It's the reason we left. I'll tell you when we've gotten where we're going. Cas?"

"West," Castiel said again, and Dean drove.

Sam was not satisfied. Dean would tell him what he wanted him to know, but he wouldn't say enough. Not nearly enough.

**~*~**

"Second house on the right," Castiel said, leaning over the front seat to point out the windshield.

He had directed Dean through the twisting streets of a housing addition in Leoville, the next town over from Woodlan, simply saying, "Right here," or "Left now," or "Continue on this path." The brick-and-brown-siding house they ended at was nice, but not terribly expensive-looking. Two stories, curved landscaping including what looked like a plot of rose bushes, wide driveway with plenty of room for the Impala.

Sam and Dean exited the car a bit nervously, craning their heads to study the house, giving each other uncertain glances. Castiel followed, completely unruffled, waiting for them to steady themselves. "Okay, _now_ will you explain?" Dean asked.

Castiel gave a solemn little head-tilt. "What do you know about Central Illinois?"

Dean's forehead furrowed. "Uh. Log cabins. Abe Lincoln. Corn. Lots of spooky stuff, actually. It's good hunting ground. Oh, and it's where we met for the first time."

"Yes. The people there tend to be religious, salt-of-the-earth. Central Illinois sees a high concentration of churches, including many of one particular, very small denomination."

The brothers stared at him. "This is not answering _any_ of my questions," Dean said flatly.

Sam, though, was beginning to get an inkling. "Your vessel."

"Yes. It is a very tight-knit denomination, much given to hospitality and visiting between churches. I ask that you be respectful while we are staying here."

With that, Castiel turned, walked up the drive to the front door, and rang the doorbell. Sam and Dean gave each other one last, uneasy look, then followed, walking shoulder to shoulder and bumping elbows a couple of times. The door opened.

"Brother James!" The cry was delighted, warm, hospitable. Everything the Winchester boys were never greeted with.

A dignified older lady with her gray-white hair caught up in a thick bun pulled Castiel into a hug, then stepped back, her hand still on his shoulders, and looked behind him to the younger men. "These are the friends you talked about?"

Castiel smiled, honest to God smiled, broad and warm and lovely. Sam wondered, with a creep of gooseflesh across his back, if Castiel was somehow accessing his vessel's memories and mannerisms, if he had let the human come forward somehow. "This is Sam and Dean Winchester, sister. They are good men." He turned sideways to continue the introduction, holding out a hand as if inviting the Winchesters into their little circle of Christian greeting. "Dean, Sam, this is Evie Klopfenstein."

"Welcome, boys." Her voice was just as warm and welcoming for them as it had been for Castiel. "Friends of the Light are always welcome in my home. Come in, come in! I'll show you the guest room, and we're having lasagna for supper."

"Oh, man," the words were blurted from Dean's lips, and he blinked, startled at his own reaction. "Dude. I freakin' love lasagna."

She chuckled sweetly, holding the door as they made their way inside. "Yes, young men usually do. If you're very, very good, there might even be dessert."

"I'll be good," Dean said earnestly.

As they followed her into the house, Sam muttered to Castiel, "Old friend of yours?"

He shook his head. "I have never met her before. She only knows that I am her brother in Christ and a member of her congregation. As I said, much given to hospitality."

The Winchester boys blinked in perfect sync. It was all very strange.

**~*~**

A couple of other young men were staying the night at the Klopfenstein household, having come to Leoville for a "singing" at the church, invited from all over the country. (From what Sam could gather, a singing was exactly what it sounded like. The kids sat around in a room and...sang. And then had snacks. And these guys seemed excited about it.) They all ate supper together, the five visitors, Evie and her husband Gary and their son Josh.

The food was delicious and the conversation was amiable, mostly about friends and family back home, plans for the weekend, what the young men had been doing lately. Josh made a very slightly off-color joke, was scolded by his mother, then grinned at his father and winked at Dean, who smirked back when Evie wasn't looking. Sam and Dean mostly just listened, staring in astonishment whenever Castiel said something. He sounded so weirdly...normal, in this particular group of people. As promised, there was some sort of fantastic peanut butter/chocolate thing for dessert, plenty to go around and leftovers in the fridge that Sam knew his brother would be raiding later that night, if he could get away with it.

Another glimpse of normal, safe, good. Sam didn't know how much of this he could take.

Castiel and the Winchesters were sharing a large guest room, the brothers with a big double bed while Castiel had been given an air mattress. Sam wondered if angels even slept. Castiel had appeared to eat at supper—sparingly—but did he need it? Would he wait in line for the shower, would he appear downstairs for waffles in the morning with bedhead and baggy sweats? Somehow Sam doubted it.

He didn't have much time to wonder, though. When they returned to their room to "get ready for the singing," Dean shut the door behind them and turned to Castiel. "Metea Park?"

Castiel bobbed his head in something like a nod, though it seemed to set uncomfortably on his shoulders. "The mound has been rebuilt. A new witch has risen and must be stopped, and the perception of the angelic host is veiled. The demonic forces on Earth have gained in strength since three months ago, and they've managed to shield the area from our gaze. They want this rite to take place."

"Like last Halloween?" Sam sank down to sit on the bed. Halloween had not been fun.

"Similar, though the purpose of this ritual is not to raise a demon. It is merely one ordinary human who desires too much power, and is willing to sacrifice too much to get it."

"A child," Dean murmured. He looked pale, sick.

"Does this have something to do with that summer?" Sam tried to catch and hold his brother's gaze, but Dean was slippery, gazing out the window at the Klopfensteins' beautiful backyard.

After a moment of gathering, though, Dean looked back to him, jaw clenched. In determination or just trying to keep down that delicious lasagna, Sam didn't know. "I hoped that you would forget, you know. That was before you knew about...about everything, about monsters, about what Dad did, and I hoped... But you must have picked up something. You started asking questions all the time, wanting to know where Dad went, why we had to move so much, why we put down salt and herbs when no one else you knew did anything like that... You were such a smart little kid, Sam. Consciously or not, you figured out that something bad had happened there. Something supernatural."

"What did happen?" Sam fought to keep his voice level, to keep from shouting, _Just tell me already! Tell me everything!_

Dean drew a shaky breath and impossibly, incredibly, gave him a smile. "I almost got you killed. Again. The stupid Shtriga wasn't enough...no, we had to go find mortal danger at a freakin' _birthday_ party...."

"It wasn't your fault," Castiel said softly. "You did nothing wrong. Not then, and not before that summer."

Dean stared at the angel, his breath catching in his throat, and seemed suddenly even more pale, more sick, the gorge rising to choke him. Words had failed him and he just stood there by the window, white face a stark contrast against the neutral taupe wall. He was sinking into himself, growing smaller and smaller right before their eyes.

"The hell..." Sam stumbled to his feet and reached out to catch his brother's shoulders just before Dean would have sunk back against the wall, his knees giving way beneath him. "What the hell, Dean? You're practically transparent, man..."

He grabbed Dean's arm to haul him over to the bed, and was peripherally aware of Castiel on Dean's other side, mirroring Sam's hold. "God, Dean, just sit down before you fall down, will ya?"

Together they manhandled (angel-handed?) Dean to the bed and pushed him down to sit, and Sam sat next to him, far too close but he didn't care. Dean was completely freaking him out. He thought he'd seen his brother broken before, on the side of that Kentucky road, but this was something different, something older, a wide crack in the very foundation of Dean's life that had always, always been there, somehow unnoticed by Sam until this very moment.

"Dean, you gotta tell me," he said urgently. "Not just about the mound, whatever it is, because that was a hunt, right? Something with Dad? And we got caught up in it somehow, even though we were way too little, and yeah, that bothers you, but I know you'll tell me everything you think I need to know about that, since we're up against the same thing now. But you gotta tell me more than that, dude. You gotta tell me everything."

Dean laughed hoarsely, wetly, terribly, and bent over, burying his face in his hands. "I already did, Sammy. I already did, and I shouldn't have, and I hoped you would forget, and you did, and now I can't, okay? I can't tell you again. I screwed up, all right? That's all you need to know. I screwed up, and I can't say it again, I can't."

Sam's hand gripped Dean's shoulder, seemingly of its own will, and he knew that it was biting in too hard, too deep, but he couldn't loosen his fingers. The room was swimming around him, black and gray and gold with the sunset outside, burning sparks that filled his head with insistent pain.

He looked up, the world tilting with the movement. He caught Castiel's sorrowful eyes as he sat on the other side of Dean, his hand also on the shaking man's shoulder. Castiel, the angel who had raised Dean from perdition, who had come to like him, who had quietly insisted on coming along on this mission even though the search for another witch probably did not require his presence at all...

"Cas...Castiel..." Sam blinked, hard, and fumbled in his mind for the words, for the magic spell, the incantation that would unlock what he needed from this ancient, immensely powerful creature. "He told me once. I was there when that hunt went bad. I need to remember. Please, just help me remember. I need to know...I need to remember that summer, everything about that summer. Please."

Castiel sat still for a moment, not even seeming to breathe as he considered. Then he nodded, slowly, solemnly, and reached out to touch Sam's forehead with the tips of two fingers.

_driving into Woodlan for the first time, the smell of horseshit in the air, knowing something was wrong with his big brother but Dean wouldn't answer his questions, chalk and hopscotch and string and cat's cradle, mowing lawns and visiting playgrounds, rolling down hills and laying in the grass, and finally Dean told him what Coach Peters had done to him and Sammy didn't really get it, but he knew that it had hurt his brother and so he was sad and angry for him, Dean crying in the backyard while Dad watched from the kitchen with eyes depthless in grief, cinnamon toast and canned ravioli, fireworks and fireflies, bike rides and walks to the hardware store, playing with the neighbor kids, lemonade and cookies, Mrs. Stoller and her sweet smile that was just for him, running in the corn and watching the guy on Third Street practice his archery, wrestling with Dean in the living room and knocking over books, trips to the library and the grocery store, Dad coming home and hugging Dean all the time, Dean silently enduring the attention, dandelions in the grass and ladybugs on the leaves, picking up sticks in the yards Dean worked on to help out, and the candy store, oh the candy store, that Mecca of childhood delight, Eddie's birthday party at Metea Park, swimming in the dirty water of the pond, walking the trail in the cool depths of the forest, playing on the unnatural mound and falling through into darkness, Dean tying the strings together, leading the way, keeping him safe, and then he had to go off for a bit and Sammy thought he heard yelling but he was so scared, so terrified and he couldn't move, Dad coming for him and carrying him, the smell of Dad's leather jacket where Sammy hid his face, Dean lying limp and exhausted and hurt on the slope of the hill with moonlight all around, lighter fluid and fire, packing up and moving again_

The restoration of memories crackled through Sam's brain like electricity, old, dusty pathways being restored in an instant's touch of power. It didn't hurt so much as it _tickled,_ and he gasped at the strange feel of it, his head drooping. Then he raised it again, eyes wide, and stared at his brother.

"God, Dean. Just...God."

Dean didn't look up, just left his face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking minutely under their hands, one human and one angelic. Sam was angry, suddenly, insensibly, at Castiel. For being there and knowing, for understanding so much more about Dean than Sam could ever comprehend. He'd seen Dean in hell, too. Had rescued him from it.

That should have been Sam's job. His privilege. Dean was his brother.

Castiel stood, abruptly, backing away from the bed and moving toward the door. "I am going to the singing now. I told our hosts that you'll be visiting some distant relatives this evening. You can search for the witch, if you like. Or you can...you can stay here."

So strange, to hear the angel seeming at a loss for words. He gazed at the brothers for a moment longer with his big, sad eyes, somehow reminding Sam of their father. Then he fled, closing the door gently behind him.

Sam remembered his own confusion, that summer, at why Dad was suddenly hanging around so much, touching Dean all the time, paying so much attention to him. He remembered being jealous in a small petty way. But now he knew. That look in his father's eyes had been guilt, and everything he did was an attempt to make up for the stunning error he had made in ever letting Dean get hurt like that.

Dean had told him about it, about all of it, and Sam had forgotten. How could he have forgotten something like that? There was always the excuse that he was too young to understand, but truthfully, Sam hadn't wanted to get it. He hadn't wanted to see his invincible big brother as weak or hurt in any way. And so he had let it fade, let it go, until was Dean was strong and unassailable again. Because Sammy had needed that, had needed an untouchable brother to keep him safe, and now he could admit that selfishness.

Now he knew differently, though. Now he knew Dean as a man. Now he could remember Dean as a boy, small and vulnerable and just as likely to be hurt as Sam had ever been, only better at hiding it.

And it was crazy, it was insane, but Sam was so glad to know. He was so glad that he knew now exactly what had happened, exactly what his brother had suffered. Because...because...this was such a normal thing. Such a human pain. Maybe Sam could deal with this, even though he still had no clue at all what to do about Hell.

He bent nearer to his brother, murmuring urgently in his ear. "It wasn't your fault, Dean. I remember...I remember everything. And I know it wasn't your fault. Didn't Dad tell you that? Did he even try? Or did he lay this on you, too?"

Dean laughed harshly, moistly, the sound bubbling through a throat choked off and tight. "He told me. I knew he was just trying to make me feel better. He did lots of things to try to make me feel better, for a little while. Before he found an important hunt."

"And the mound, Dean... God. How could you possibly think that was your fault? I was the one who wanted to go off the path, pushed you into it, idiot child that I was. God."

"I was the older one, I was in charge, I knew what was out there and you didn't. It was on me."

Sam pressed his hand more tightly into his brother's shoulder, rubbed it across Dean's rigid upper back to clasp the opposite shoulder, pulling him against his side. Once again, words were utterly useless, and he didn't know what else he had to offer. "Yeah, and you paid the price. I remember that, too. Something happened to you, and you could barely move out of bed for days after. Dad and I packed up, got us moved. It was weird and I was a little scared, because I'd never seen you so weak and sick. It was the witch, wasn't it? He or she did something to you."

"She," Dean muttered, finally looking up, though he didn't face Sam, just gazed away out the window again. "It was Mrs. Stoller."

Sam's breath stopped for a moment. "Christ."

Dean smiled joylessly. "Be respectful, dude. I doubt Evie Klopfenstein would care for that language."

Sam huffed a painful laugh. "Okay. Asshole."

They sat there for a small time, Sam's arm tight around his brother's shoulders, both of them staring out the expansive windows into the backyard. Gary and Evie were working in their garden, waiting for the kids to come back from their church function. A retired carpenter and a counselor for troubled kids, sweet and strong and beautiful together. Then Dean drew a breath and sat upright, pulling away, as Sam had known he would.

"C'mon. We got a witch to hunt."

**~*~**

The library was closed, but they parked nearby and Sam used the free wireless (the only one in the Woodlan area) to do his usual research-fu. They felt like they had something of a handle on this one, having already gone through something similar and knowing what they were up against, so Sam was mostly looking for a likely date for the witch to perform a ritual sacrifice. Tomorrow they would start investigating, look for the witch's daytime identity, but it would help to know what kind of timeframe they were working with. Dean sat in the driver's seat while Sam typed and clacked and made little humming noises under his breath. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and did his best not to ask, "How's it going?" every ten seconds, but it was damn hard.

"Finding anything?" he asked when the last shreds of sunset started to fade from the sky. It was getting really, really cold. If they weren't going to accomplish anything tonight, they might as well go back to the Klopfensteins' and get a good night's sleep. In a house. It still kind of weirded him out.

Sam grunted. "A few possible dates, but nothing certain. I need books."

"Library's closed, buddy."

"I know." Sam paused just long enough to give him a narrow-eyed glare, then went back to his computer. "Just a little longer, and I might have a better answer."

Dean tapped his fingers some more. Waiting sucked. There had to be a faster way to take care of this problem. Dean wanted to get out of Woodlan and never come back.

An idea started to tickle at the back of his mind. "Hey, Sam... What if we could cut this one off at the pass?"

"What do you mean?" Sam didn't even look up from the screen.

"We know where the ritual is going to happen, right? The mound. I'm sure the witch's altar is there—it was last time—and we know that witches' power is tied to their altars. If we take it apart, he or she will figure out that something is up and come to check it out. And then we ambush 'im, take 'im out."

Sam did look up then, blinking owlishly. "Wow, Dean. That's...actually a really good plan."

Dean smirked, already starting the car, making inventory in his mind of what they would need from the trunk. "I know, right? This is why I'm the big brother and you're the little brother. Put that laptop away. We won't need it for this one."


	6. Part 6 & Epilogue

**Part 6: When I Am Older Than These Small Goddamned Hills**

The mound was just as creepy as Dean remembered, but this time Sam seemed to sense the malevolence of it, too. They circled the unnaturally symmetrical hill a couple of times while Sam recited some generic opening spells he had picked up somewhere and stored in his freaky brain. Fortunately this witch wasn't particularly creative, or at least not very paranoid, because the second time around a dark, dank mouth gaped open in the hill on the side farthest from the trail. It was full dark now, the January moon just a cold sliver above, and Dean raised his favorite flashlight, gave Sam a grim nod, and stepped inside.

Like the candy store (and wasn't _that_ a weird comparison to be making), everything felt smaller now, less overwhelming, less towering. With adult eyes, Dean was able to see the familiar trappings of witchery, not a mass of chaos. Understanding what this strange and awful stuff was did a lot to give him a handle on the weirdness, though it was still freaky and disturbing and, yeah, really disgusting, too.

They knocked over the altar, cut the animal corpses down from the ceiling, defaced the symbols carved into the walls, ripped pages out of the books. Salt and lighter fluid everywhere, and they baptized the entire place in cleansing fire. It felt good. It must have taken the new witch years to rebuild this place, to dig out the layers of salt and ash that John Winchester had left behind and incant the dozens and dozens of spells it would have taken to make it suitable for black magic again. And they destroyed it all in a little over half an hour.

Afterward, they hid just inside the treeline and waited, leaning against a couple of sturdy trees, watching the fire flare in the dark doorway of the mound. The silence was comfortable, but Dean figured it couldn't possibly last. No, Sammy was working up to something.

So it was almost a relief when Sam finally spoke up. "Hey. I brought these."

Dean looked over, eyebrows raising, and saw the half-empty bag of Dum-Dums in his brother's hand. "Awesome." He grabbed a fistful with the hand not holding his gun and stuck them in the pocket of his jacket, then pulled the wrapper off a sucker with his teeth and popped the candy in his mouth. Grape. Not his favorite, but it would do.

Sam did the same, then hummed appreciatively. "Mm, cream soda."

"Ugh. I'd rather actually drink a cream soda. Dude, I will never understand the flavoring of candy like other candy. What is the point of a bubblegum-flavored jellybean or a licorice-flavored sucker? Freakin' useless."

Sam nodded solemnly, as if this was the most important conversation they had ever had. "Cotton candy is the worst though."

"True."

"But I like the soda flavors. Remember Bottle Caps? Delicious. I should have gotten some of those at the candy store."

Dean tilted his head in interest. "Oh, I didn't see those."

"Man, they had pretty much everything there, I'm sure. Even retro candies from the sixties and stuff."

"Yeah." Dean looked back over the mound.

For awhile they sucked their candy in companionable silence. But then Sam had to go and ruin everything, of course.

"About Coach Peters..."

"Dude, no!" Dean responded so quickly and so vociferously that his current Dum-Dum launched out of his mouth and landed somewhere in the bracken. He didn't immediately replace it, his mouth feeling sour and heavy. "I don't want to talk about this. Not ever, you got me? It wasn't that big a deal. He didn't even...he didn't even..." Oh, come on. If it wasn't a big deal, he should at least be able to say the word. Dean spit it out like a stone. "He didn't even rape me. It was just some groping and humping in the equipment closet. Not a big deal."

Hearing himself lay it out like that, in the crude language Dean used for everything, should have made it smaller, more ordinary. Just a _thing._ But the words lay between them, heavy and ugly. Sick.

He turned his back on Sam, unwilling to see even the faint expression that was visible in the flickering, dying red light. He could still feel his brother's silence behind him, though, thick and accusing.

"If it's not a big deal, why does it still bother you?"

Oh, and that was Sam's reasonable voice, so carefully flat and neutral. As if anything about this situation was remotely _reasonable._

"Because I'm a wimp, obviously. It was a long time ago and it wasn't that important and it shouldn't...it shouldn't..."

There weren't words. Dean stopped, his heart clogging up his throat. This was so stupid.

Sam stepped up closer to his back, hovering, too close, his breath warm on the back of Dean's neck. His voice was low, calm. "Dean, you were molested. It's a big deal. It's important."

"No, it's not..." Dean could hear the weakness in his voice and he hated it fiercely, but he had no strength to draw from. "Yeah, okay, it was molestation, I know the word, all right? I was molested. But not...not severely."

"Any is severely, Dean. Any is severely."

And there was Sam's hand on his shoulder again, warm and strong. Dean leaned back into it without thinking, wanting some of that warmth and strength to seep through the layers of jacket and shirts, to fill this cold spot that had been living in his chest ever since he was eleven years old.

"Dad never took you to a counselor, did he?" If there had been the slightest note of accusation or bitterness in Sam's voice, Dean would have wrenched away, possibly punched him, done anything to escape this horrifically awkward conversation. But there was only concern there, only love for his pathetic older brother, and Dean couldn't reject that. "He figured that we could handle it on our own, the Winchester way. He did his best, I know that. But Dean, man, you need more. You need more."

Dean leaned more heavily on his tree, arms hanging loose and heavy at his sides, eyes aching as he stared at the fire. Sam stepped up again, a little closer, a little warmer, his hand pressing in a little harder, a little more insistently.

"It still bothers you," Sam said. "It still...it still hurts you. And that means there's still a wound there, don't you get it? It doesn't have to keep lying open like this. We can do something about it. Please let me do something about it."

A note of desperation in his baby brother's voice now, and Dean couldn't stand that, he couldn't. "Okay," he whispered, then cleared his throat, said it again. "Okay. You win, Sammy. You win this one."

"No, Dean." Sam gripped his shoulder tight and hard, but Dean felt relief and triumph in it. "We win this one. Both of us."

**~*~**

The night was too dark for moonlight, but the figure approaching through the trees seemed to be lit up anyway. Or maybe it was sucking in the small light around it like a black hole, visible by its absence. Sam squared his shoulders and drew in a steady breath, one hand on Ruby's knife and the other on the holy water. Dean held his favorite pistol in both hands, tense and ready at his shoulder.

A low mutter reached them from the doddering creature, faint and shuddering, and goosebumps shivered to life across Sam's shoulders and neck. The voice was shaky and old, the cadence rambling, cyclical, devoid of meaning. It sounded utterly insane.

The witch's gait sped up, stumbling into a run, when at last she became aware of the dying flames still lighting the forest around the mound. The rambling sped up, too, gained in volume until it became a shout, a catalog of curses and imprecations and oaths of vengeance. The witch was wearing a robe, tattered edges flying behind her as she ran. Then the figure came around to their side of the mound, all but dancing in rage, staring at the fiery remnants of the altar room with hands flying to face. Pudgy fingers picked restlessly at the edge of fabric, and the cowl came back, and Sam stared.

The witch was a man, maybe in his fifties but seeming much older, crow's feet and deep lines of hard living digging into his face in uneven crags, a landscape drenched with age and weathered with ill will. Sam blinked. He seemed so familiar. It must have been that small-town feeling, the sense of knowing every face you see even if you can't match a name to it.

Dean stuttered forward a step, then another, out of the trees, apparently without realizing he was doing it. The handgun drooped to point at the ground. "What the... M-Mr. Stoller? Is that you?"

Sam blinked and stared a little harder as the man whirled to face him, automatically sifting through the old memories Castiel had restored. The Daniel Stoller in the summer of 1990 was a fit, strong fellow, grinning joyfully as he spent time with his son, the sun lighting his face, tall and broad in Sammy's child's eye. This man...this man was ruined.

Daniel Stoller blinked at Dean, eyes wide and round in the strange light, mouth slack. Sores marked the skin around around his lips, huge and blistered, like chemical burns, and more blemishes sneaked around the edge of his hairline and pocked his fish-white skin. Magic, Sam thought, magic like radiation, like death.

Then the blankness vanished from Stoller's face in a wave of heat, replaced with twisted rage. _"You."_ He pointed a shaking finger at Dean, gnarled and ancient before his time. "You killed my wife!"

Dean shook his head numbly. "No, man. I would never."

"Don't lie to me, young man!" Sam almost could have laughed at the tone, so very like any outraged adult scolding a recalcitrant youngster, but there was nothing funny about the madness poisoning Daniel Stoller's voice. "I know where you were, where my wife sent you that day! And then we went looking and you were gone, but I found her body." He stalked forward, thin legs shaking under his beer gut. "I found my dead wife, her body burnt and blackened, lost in the fire. Do you know what that's _like?_ To see the woman you love destroyed in flames? Do you have any concept of what a terrible, unthinkable thing that is?"

Dean was ashen now, backing away from the aggressive man without realizing it. His hands hung limp at his sides, and Sam was suddenly fuming, his breath spurting out in hot pants. It wasn't _fair._ It wasn't _right._ This crazy old witch had no right to taunt Dean, hurt him, spiteful and cruel with fire behind him and moonlight above. The pure _wrongness_ of the whole thing was bringing Sam to a slow burn, cold and furious.

"I never wanted that," Dean said. He paused, gathered himself, and then the Dean Sam knew was back, eyes hard and glinting. He raised his gun, hands steady, and Daniel Stoller halted in his tracks. "I never wanted that," Dean said again, his voice harsh, no longer wavering. "She attacked me. She was going to hurt my brother. I had no choice but to fight back."

Stoller snarled, wiped the saliva from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "No choice? You chose this. You chose what you are, che-la-po-la. You killed my wife and my son died the next day, just faded away white and empty. Only just turned twelve years old! The doctors couldn't explain it, said he had no blood, said it was medically impossible, but I knew who to blame. You took my family and I had nothing left."

Dean tilted his head slightly, watching the crazed man through the gun sight. "I'm sorry about your son. It was your wife who killed him, though. Dad said she must have been draining him for years, using his blood. Must've bonded him to her, so when she went so did he." He shuddered, almost theatrically, though Sam knew that this disgust was entirely genuine. "Freakin' witches, man. Gotta love 'em."

He stalked sideways, keeping his gun and his eyes trained on Daniel Stoller, glancing over to the mouth of the cavern. "So you picked up where she left off, huh? Strange decision, buddy, though I guess it takes all kinds."

Stoller drew himself straight, then, pulling in whatever shreds of dignity he had left as he stalked after Dean, chasing him, though he kept a wary distance from the gun. "He came to me at the mound while I cradled my dead wife in my arms. Her skin was black and peeling and came off under my fingers, and then my master spoke to me. He offered me the power to avenge her. I could not refuse."

"No choice, huh?" Dean smirked, took a couple more steps. "Guess we have that in common, don't we?"

"I'm nothing like you." The witch shook, fists clenched, and raised his arms toward Dean in a stance that Sam instantly recognized. He was channeling power, from the mound, from the demon that controlled him, from something. And he was focusing it all on Dean.

"You got nothing left, dude," Dean said, calm and sure. "Don't make me kill you, now. I don't wanna do it."

Stoller smirked. "Something we don't have in common, then. Because I definitely want to kill _you."_

He began to chant, powerful words roiling through his thin chest, resonating eerily. It sounded like Algonquin, probably the Miami dialect, Sam noted with some distant part of his mind even as he nearly froze in alarm. Black smoke was pouring out of the mouth of the cavern, too thick and heavy to be from the now-guttering fire. It poured around Daniel Stoller in two thick waves, and then it poured into him, filling him, until his eyes began to glow red and black.

Dean fired his gun, with absolutely no effect, until Stoller waved a hand and he was knocked to the ground. But now Sam saw what Dean's careful maneuvering had done. He had moved them back into the trees, backed them around until the witch was only a few feet from where Sam still crouched hidden, unnoticed and ready to fight.

Stoller glided toward where Dean lay, grinning with gleeful insanity, his movement no longer shaky and weak with the demon (demons?) now filling his body. "And now you die," the man said with grim satisfaction. "You killed my wife."

He raised a hand and Dean yelled, twisting on himself as much as he could while pinned to the ground as he was. It was all too familiar, all too much like what Sam's big brother had already suffered again and again and again, at the hands of too many demons, too many monsters, evil creatures pinning him down and hurting him for their own sick pleasure.

"No!" Sam grunted through gritted teeth, and he launched himself out of the trees, knife first. He buried the demon-slaying knife in the man's neck and bore him to the ground.

"He was just a kid," Sam spat, staring into the demon's eyes, into Daniel Stoller's eyes, as he watched him die in smoke and fire. "He didn't kill your family. He didn't deserve any of this. He was just a kid and he _didn't deserve any of it."_

Stoller convulsed against him, once, twice, and was still.

At last it was gone, all of the fire and smoke. Even the flames in the mound had died. The Winchesters did nothing for a moment, panting in the dark. Then Sam took the knife out of Stoller's neck, wiped it in the dead grass, and moved over to his brother.

"You okay, man?"

He got Dean's hand in his, hauled him up to sit. Dean helped, not deadweight, not unconscious. Maybe, for once, he hadn't been torn up too bad by the telekinetic assault.

"Yeah," Dean said. He voice shook a little, but it was slight enough that they could both pretend it didn't. "Yeah, 'mokay. You stopped 'im before he did any damage. It just stung a little, but it's all right now."

Still, he put a fist to his chest, pressing without realizing he was doing it, and Sam left a hand on his shoulder. "That's good."

They were quiet for a while longer, just resting.

"You didn't deserve it," Sam said suddenly, the words bursting out of his mouth before he knew he was going to say them. He blinked, but didn't try to take it back.

"I know," Dean said with the faintest tinge of annoyance. "You told me. Dad told me. I get it, okay?"

"Really?"

Dean said nothing. Sam squeezed his shoulder a bit tighter, sparing a moment of silent apology for subjecting that poor body part to so much squeezing in one day. It was all Dean would take, though, so it was all Sam could give.

"While we were at the library," he said. "On the internet. I looked up Coach Peters. He disappeared in July 1990, sometime around the fourteenth or fifteenth. Never found, not even a trace."

Dean made a non-committal humming noise.

"Didn't Dad go on a hunting trip that weekend?" He was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

Dean huffed a sigh, but he nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think so. Second or third weekend in July, right? You probably remember more, what with your angel-fresh brain and all."

"Yeah." Sam sat still for a moment, then went on. "It's just as well. If that guy had still been around I woulda had to go on a weekend trip myself, and we've got the Apocalypse and stuff."

His brother laughed at that, short and painful, but real. "Guess it's a good thing Dad was a few steps ahead of you on that one, then."

"Sure." Sam scuffed a toe in the grass. He didn't say that he was disappointed, actually. He would have been just fine doing that little job himself, never mind their supposed responsibilities now, Lilith and the seals and the end of the world.

"Can we stop now?" Dean asked. "Are we done with this? Do we gotta hug?"

Sam looked up. "Will you let me?"

Dean let out an exasperated breath. "You're asking? When have you ever asked? Did Stoller turn me into a chick somehow in the two seconds he actually had a tiny bit of power, or is this just you being you? I mean, I always knew you were kind of a big girl, but..."

He shut up when Sam wrapped his arms around him and held on tight.

And yeah, Dean let him. For maybe ten seconds. Then it was done, or so he said. Loudly and repeatedly.

**~*~**

Back at the Klopfensteins', the kids were home from their singing. In fact, there seemed to be something like an after-party going on, a small group ranging in age from about fifteen to twenty-five sitting around the living room chatting and eating snacks, playing card games, drinking pop. The Winchesters paused long enough for Dean to snag a brownie, then hurried upstairs, aware that they needed to get rid of the scent of fire before anyone thought to ask what sort of bonfire they'd been attending.

They found Castiel sitting cross-legged on the air mattress in their room, his eyes closed and face serene. Meditating or something, it looked like. Sam rolled his eyes and went to shower while Dean decided to poke the angel.

Castiel opened his eyes and stared up at him. "Hello, Dean. You seem quite satisfied."

"Found the witch," Dean reported, sitting on the bed and taking off his boots. "Seal is safe."

"Well done." Castiel unfolded himself and went to stand next to the window, looking out on the dark landscape. He was humming something, Dean realized, and then he actually sang a few lines.

_They are calling, gently calling, sweetly calling me to come. And I'm looking through the shadows for the blessed lights of home._

Castiel's singing voice was nice, but nothing extraordinary. Dean was vaguely disappointed at first, then remembered that angels' real voices had the unfortunate side-effect of making his ears bleed. "Stuck in your head, huh? That's a hell of an earworm."

"Mmm. I have developed a great appreciation for human hymns." Castiel looked back to Dean, tilting his head to the side. "You seem more settled, content. You and Sam talked?"

"Yeah." And that was all Dean intended to say on that subject.

Castiel just nodded and looked out the window.

Dean was starting to get a sneaking suspicion. "Hey, you know...this was kinda easy, for protecting a seal and all. You sure you really needed Sam and me for this job?"

"You needed to be here."

"That doesn't exactly answer my question, dude."

But it seemed that that was all that Castiel intended to say on the subject, too.

**~*~**

They drove around Woodlan one more time before leaving, better able to take in the memories now. Still a shadow tainted them, but it was lighter, gauzier. It felt like it might even pass someday.

"We'll come back sometime," Dean said, and Sam nodded. Castiel hummed in the backseat, soft and sweet and happy.

Woodlan was a beautiful town. It would be a shame to never return.

**Epilogue: Oh, How I'll Feel Like a Beautiful Child Again**

_Sandusky, Ohio — September, 1990_

Another town, another school. Dean leaned on the Impala for a moment, steeling himself, one hand rubbing absently at his chest while the other held his backpack. Just a moment, and then he would go inside. Just a moment.

Dad's hand fell lightly on his shoulder, and Dean looked up. He saw the firm line of his father's jaw, his eyes focused ahead, on the school, the way Dean's had been.

"You gonna be okay, dude?"

The question was soft, gentle. Dean wanted to be upset that Dad was still being so careful with him, as if he was made of glass, but the truth was that he wanted it. He still _felt_ like he was made of glass, his insides squishy and aching from whatever the witch had done to him. It was still hard to get up in the morning, sometimes, though it was getting better.

"I'll be okay," he answered, just as softly. "I know what to do. Listen to the teachers, get along with the other kids. Keep my head down."

"No." Dad's hand tightened on his shoulder, swift and urgent, and Dean looked up, startled. Dad smiled down at him, a wry twist of the lips. "Keep your head up. Pay attention. Be safe."

Dean nodded solemnly. That was what he should have done in the last school. This year would be different. He would make sure of it.

"And talk to me, all right?" Dad's voice was deep and earnest, freezing Dean in place. "Talk to me. Whatever it is, whatever happens...you come to me. All right?"

A nod was not enough of an answer for this. "Yes, sir," Dean said very seriously, trying to make his dad believe just how gravely he was taking this instruction.

"Okay. Okay. Good." Dad paused for a second, then pulled Dean into a warm, strong hug. "Have a good day, kiddo."

Dean nodded, then closed his eyes and pressed his face into his father's leather jacket, just for moment. He breathed in deep, taking in the rich smell of leather and gun oil.

He carried the scent of it with him all through the school day, like a talisman to ward off the bad thoughts. And it worked. He even did all right in gym class.

**The End**


	7. Warnings & Notes

**These notes contain spoilers for the story. If you don't have triggers, I recommend you simply read the story and take it as it is. I promise that the subject matter is handled with sensitivity. Come back and read the notes later. :)**

_**Warning:**_ This story deals with the sexual abuse of a child. While the incidents happen "off-screen" and before the story takes place, they are discussed in some detail, particularly in a rather vivid flashback. If you have triggers relating to this, there are a few scenes you might want to skip, or just avoid the story altogether.

The first scene is in Part 2, beginning with "It was the P.E. teacher." and ending with "It felt like there was nothing else to do." (That's an entire section.) The second scene is in Part 3, beginning with "Dean lay awake, staring at the ceiling." and ending with "Why hadn't he fought?" (The rest of that section deals with the issue more abstractly.) There's also a rather frank discussion in Part 6, beginning with "About Coach Peters..." and ending with "Both of us." at the end of that section.

**Notes:** They say to write what you know, and this story was just one big exercise in that, really. The town of "Woodlan" is where I grew up, and all of the locations are real. (See the soundtrack page for pictures of my little town. It's lovely and I love it and you should too.) Many of the childhood scenes were also taken from summers I have spent here, and writing them was something of a visceral experience for me. I kept remembering more things, finding more sights and sounds and smells that I wanted to share. My hope is that readers who finish this story will come away with a greater appreciation for small-town life and the value of childhood.

The church I chose to make Jimmy a member of is real. It is The Apostolic Christian Church of America, and it is the church I grew up in and am still a member of. It is small and conservative and very loving, and while I am struggling now with my own theology and where I want to be and belong, that is no reflection on the church. It's a wonderful place and I was privileged to grow and learn there.

I am also very familiar with childhood sexual abuse and its long-term effects. Dean's story in this fic is, basically, my own, with a few details changed. It was a foster boy, the incidents took place in my home over the course of a summer (the summer of 1990, to be exact), and I was seven. Sam's line to Dean that finally gets through to him, "Any is severely," is what my good friend Aaron said to me when I was suffering a bout of severe depression in my junior year of college. I was in denial about the pain I was in, insisting that what had happened to me was no big deal and shouldn't bother me anymore and I didn't need help, I should just get over it. But those words stopped me in my tracks.

Any is severely.

If you are suffering, you deserve to be helped. It doesn't matter how small or insignificant the triggering event might seem, how mild in comparison to what other people have gone through. If it's bothering you then it's a wound that needs to be healed. Give yourself permission to hurt, permission to cry, and permission to lean on others. It's what we're here for.

Many thanks to my alpha readers, **tahirire**, **chocochip_pie**, **amoralambiguity**, and **jedishadowolf**. And especially **just_ruth**, who questioned my characterization and plot points and made the story better for just being there. They all held my hand and loved me as I wrote some very difficult scenes.

Also big, BIG thanks to **echo_grace_07** for an extremely last minute beta. You are awesome, bb.

Mucho love and thanks also to **millylicious**, who is amazing. Make sure you tell her how awesome her art is! It was fun being Big Bang first-timers together with you. ::MWAH::


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